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Vnipiing 9tp mo J I d9)|i 

lapDn «■ ^ooq ^qj, 


,for (fPramllfrs iinh fijp fmsiit. 

Bdok for A Corner. 

I. 15 I G H HUNT. 


" tBJBitt «f fwlttg JBtrit, in tlfgont mU, anl at inmWlilt! Iwi ^tto." 





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Home <md Social PhUosophy : 

Or Chapters on Every-day Topics From "Household Words." Edited by 
Chablbs DxiKENs. 12mo., 264 pages. 

** This work contains a vast fund of useful information upon scientific subjects, as ap 
plr'd to the every day affairs of \\(e."—Star qfthe North. 

i ^** These volumes will meet a want long and widely felt by families, schools, and indivi- 
dnaH. We cannot recommend them too earnestly to the public geaerall^."— CArtff. Chrofi. 

* * Home and Social Philosophy' embraces eighteen articles from Dickens's ' Household 
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economy, natural philosophy, and kindred topics."— ^cAenecrocfy Cabinet. 

** Few enterprises of this kind present more attractive features at the outset than this of 
dM *Semi-Monthly Library.' The first number contains such selections from Dickens's 
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*HoaMhola Words,' that have a similarity of subject, and republish them in one volume 
Tiw nMtioiis are made with judgment, and the work is neatly got u^."^Hart/ord Cofsrmnt. 



By Thoxas Hood. With Woodcuts. 

** We have before alluded, in the highest terms of commendation, to Mr. Putnam'a New 
IJbrary ; ^e have spolcen of the judioioun oeiertions he has made for its pa^es, of the beau- 
tiful mechanical execution, and ttie unexampled r.heapness of the work. Smce this notice a 
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there is a deeper philosophy in his mirthfulness, than \a apparent at a glance ; heart-truths of 
saddest meaning lurking amid his most ludicrous creations. Some of these whimsicalitiee 
might, at a pinch, serve the purpose of a sermon.''— AV/rfain's Mngaxiv. 


Widks and Talks of an AvieHcan Fa^'wer in Eng- 

By Fred. L. OLaisTED. With Woodcuts. 

Home Journal. 

" A charmingly-written insight into the ways of the English million."— X^»pr»7/c Jour. 

"An unpretending and delightful narrative."— <Sfo. Lit. Messenger. 

" We have read mis volume with considerable interest, for it is a view of England takeh 
Apom a different point from any which we have before seen. It is not only in tnat respect 
original, but it contains much good sense and reflection, without any pretence to any fine 
writing. Its aim is to instruct, and this object is effected in a pleasant manner. The writer 
has much love for nature, old buildings, ivy, and the constituents of English scenery, but does 
not poesess the power of description which has characterized the works of some of the cele- 
brated American describers of England's glories." — Newark Advertiser. 

"The author has seasoned bis rural narrative most judiciouslv, with brief descriptiona 
of some of the old castles, parka, halls, furniture, &c. It is a delightful book every way."— 
New England Farmer. 

•' This is a narrative of an actual tour on foot in England, by an American Farmer, and 
is written in a pleasant and interesting style. There arc "few, very few, new books of these 
days which possess any merit at all to be compared with this. The author has not only sr n 
the outside of English life— the palaces and grandeur, and magnificent sights— but Ha 1 iS 
mixed with the people in the l.ovel as well as the palace, and seen misery as well as mainii- 
ficence. He has been a good observer of men and manners, and has told his tale wCh a 
readv pen."— Star of the North. 

" It is many a day since we have encountered a book written with so healthy an entliu- 
siasm, containing so much useful and interesting information."— ComwionweaZ^A. 

" The American farmer is a very clover and observing feWovr. "—AthewBum. 

"A great deal maybe learned from it of the opinions and dispositions of our lower 
classes which few English writers would like to state, even if they knew it. He is, on the 
whole, we think, one of the best observers from the new country who has yet visited the old, 
and known how to appreciate it." — Economist. 

" Cohbett said the only way to see England properly was by rambling on foot over the 
hills and along the dales, and from the fresh and graphic records Mr O'niflted has given us, 
we are inclinra to think hs is comtct in his opinion"."— T'Ae Ph'^ 



"♦ » » 



ItltitiQiis in ^mt qqH Smt 


oohmehts OS each, utd a gehiral UTBODurnoir, 





{ ( 




Against Inoonsistengy in our Exfeotationb . Mrs. Barhauid. *t 
The Enchantments of the Wizard Indolengb, and Exfloiib of 
THE Knight Sib Indubtrt. From the ** Oastle of Indolence" 

l%onuon, 14 
Stories, now first collected, from the " Tatlee," '* Sfeotator," 

AND *' Guardian" Sir Bichard Steele, 89 

Yakntkie find Unnion 42 

The Fire '. 48 

Thi^ Weddbg Day 46 

TheSypwreck 48 

The Alchemists 60 

The Violent Husband 54 

Likle and Tarico 55 

The Fits 58 

Clubs of Steele and Goldsmith 61 

The Spectator's Club Steele, 65 

The Club of the Tatler « 11 

Clubs — C&oice Spirits — ^Muzzy Club— Harmonieal So- 
ciety OoldsmitK 77 

Count Fathom's Adyentube in the Lone Cottage . Smollett, 84 

The Hermit Parnell, 98 

Peter Pounce's Dialogue with Parson Adams. From "Joseph 

Andrews" Fielding. 104 

Verses Written at an Inn at Henlet Shetistone. Ill 

Five Letters Orai^. 116 

To Horace Walpole — A Fox-hunter— A Poet's Solitude 

— Southern the Dramatist 116 

To Richard West — Bad Spirits — Recollections of Hus- 
bands and Statesmen at School 118 


To THE RKYKiuDn) NoRToic NioHOLLs — Banter of Formal 

Excuses and Fine Exordiums — Southampton — An 

Abbot — Sunrise 119 

To THE Same — ^A Mother — Soenerj of Kent .... 121 

To THE Same — Having a Garden of One's Own — Shen- 

stone — Second Banter of Formal Apologies . . . .123 

AnvAirrAGEs OF CuLTiVATiNa A Taste FOR PioTUBES Jan. JRichardaon. 126 

Ode ON A Distant PaosPEor of Eton College .... Grai/, 186 

A LoNo Stort " 140 

Sir Roger de Coverlet. From the " Spectator" . . Addison. 148 

Sir Roger's Household Establishment 148 

His Behavior in Church on a Sunday 152 

Sir Roger and the Gipsies . . • 165 

His Visit to the Tombs in Westminster Abbey . . .159 

Hanners of THE Frenoh Colonel Pinckney. 164 

A House and Grounds . . . . ' 173 

Thoughts on a Garden. From a Letter to Evelyn. Cowley. 178 

Thoughts on Retirement. From one of his Letters 

8ir W. Temple. 183 

Old English Gkirden of the Seventeenth Century " 185 

Petition for an Absolute Retreat . . Lady Winehihea. 188 

An Old Country House and an Old Lady. From the 

" Lounger** Mackenzie. 192 

Love of the Country in the Decline of Life. From the 

same 198 

Two Sonnets, and an Insoriftion on a Sprino. Thomas Warton. 204 

Liscription over a Calm and Clear Spring 205 

Written in a Blank Leaf of Dugdale*s " Monasticon** . . 205 

Written after seeing Wilton House . . 205 

Desortptions of Night. From the Notes to Ossian . Macpherson, 207 

Retirement and Death of a Statesman. From "Hemoirs of The 

Right Honorable Charles James Fox** Trotter. 214 

Elegt in a Countbt Churchtabd Gray. 222 

^against 3iiionBi!it£ttn( in nttr (Siptttatiom 


Better writhig or reasoning than the following it wonld not be 
easy to find. There are some additional remarks in the original, 
which, though not without merit, we cannot help thinking by an in- 
ferior hand, and have, therefore, omitted. Every sentence here set 
down is admirable ; nor is there anything, however vigorous in the 
tone, which a noble-minded woman might not utter, without commit- 
ting the delicacy of her sex. All is conformable to kindness as well 
as zeal, and to the beauty of right thinking. 

- In reading this excellent piece of advice one feels astonished to 
think how so many could have stood in need of it, ourselves perhaps 
among the number. But so it is. We feel it to have been necessary, 
while we are surprised at its having been so ; and we become anxious 
that all the world should be acquainted with it. The good it is cal- 
culated to do is evident, and of the greatest importance. We have 
beai*d of reflecting men who are proud to acknowledge their obliga- 
tions to it ; who say it has influenced the greater part of their lives ; 
and we know of others who have spoken of it with admiration ; Mr. 
Hazlitt for one. 

At the same time, good as the spirit of the admonition is for every- 
body, the line drawn between the seekers of wealth and the cultiva- 
tors of wisdom appears to us to be a little too strong; or at least to 
have become so in our days, whatever the case inay have been in 
those in which it was writtea The recognition of the beauty and 


eyen the utility of mental accomplisliments has latterly been keeping 
better pace with commercial industry ; men in trade have inflaeuced 
the opinions of the world on the most unexpected and important 
points, by means of their share of them ; and in the passages ex- 
tracted from the biography of Hutton, the reader has seen an account 
of a man who, in Mrs. Barbauld's own time, rose to wealth from the 
humblest beginnings, and whose career was accompanied, neverthe- 
less, by a love of books and by liberal feelings, by the regard and 
assistance of men of genius, and by the warmest affections of his 
family. The instance of his distinguished fViend Bage, the novelist 
and paper-maker, is still more striking on the side of independence. 
But we have noticed them both more at large in the place referred 
to, as weir as the exceptions to sordid rules that have occurred in all 
ages and nations. Still the essay remains necessary to many, useful 
and a good caudon to all. 

Our gratitude must not forget, that the chief honor of the admoni- 
tion remains with the good old Stole philosopher, the following pas- 
sage out of whose writings Mrs. Barbaold made the text of her 
sermon: — 

** What is more reasonable than that they who take pains for anything, should 
get most in that particular for which they take pains ? They have taken pains for 
power, you for right principles ; they for riches, you for a proper use of the appear- 
anee of things. See whether they have the advantage of you in that for which you 
have taken pains, and which they neglect. If they are in power, and you not, why 
will not you speak the truth to yourself, that you do nothing for the sake of ptiwer, 
but that they do everything? No: but since I take care to have right principles, 
it is more reasonable that I should have power. Tes, in respect to what yon take 
care about, your principlee; but give up to others the things in which they have 
taken more care than you ; else it is Just as if, because jrou have ri^t principles, 
you should think it fit that irhea you shoot an arrow yon should hit the mark better 
than an archer, or that you should forge better than a smith."— OARTia's Epictetwt, 

AS most of the unhappiness in the world arises rather from 
disappointed desires than from positive evil, it is of the 
utmost consequence to attain just notions of the laws and 
order of the universe, that we may not vex ourselves with 
V fruitless wishes, or give way to groundless and unreasonable 
discontent. The laws of natural philosophy, indeed, are 
tolerably understood and attended to; and, though we may 


suffer iiicoiiyenieiice&, we are seldom disappointed in con- 
sequence of them. No man expects to preserve oranges 
through an English winter; or when he has planted an 
acorn, to see it become a large oak in a few months. The 
mind of man naturally yields to necessity, and our wishes 
soon subside when we see the impossibility of their being 
gratified. Now, upon au accurate inspection, we shall find 
in the moral government of the world, and the order of the 
intellectual system, laws as determinate, fixed, and invariable 
as any in Newton's Principia. The progress of vegetation 
is not more certain than the growth of habit; nor is the 
power of attraction more clearly proved, than the force of 
affection, or the influence of example. The man, therefore, 
who has well studied the operations of nature in mind as 
well as matter, will acquire a certain moderation and equity 
in his claims upon Providence ; he will never be disappointed 
either in himself or others ; he will act with precision, and 
expect that effect, and that alone, from his efforts, which 
they are naturally adapted to produce. For want of this, 
men of merit and integrity often censure the depositions of 
Providence for suffering the characters they despise to run 
away with advantages which, they yet know, are purchased 
by such means as a high and noble spirit could never submit 
to. If you refuse to pay the price, why expect the purchase ? 
We should consider this world as a great mart of commerce, 
where Fortune exposes to our view various commodities,—-* 
riches, ease, tranquillity, fame, integrity, knowledge. Every- 
thing is marked at a settled pnce. Our time, our labor, 
our ingenuity, is so much ready money we are to lay out to 
the best advantage. Examine, compare, choose, reject, but 
stand to your own judgment, and do not, like children, wheu 
you have purchased one thing, repine that you do not possess 
another which you did not purchase. Such is the force of 



well-regalated industry, that a steady and yigorons exertion 
of our faculties, directed to one end, will generally insure 
success. Would 3rou, for instance, be rich? Do you think 
that single point worth sacrificing everything else to % You 
may then be rich. Thousands have become so from the 
lowest b^in^ings, by toil and patient diligence, and atten- 
tion to the minutest articles of expense and profit ; but you 
must give up the pleasures of leisure, of a vacant mind, of a 
free, unsuspicious temper. If you preserve your integrity, 
it must be a coarse-spun and vulgar honesty. Those high 
and lofty notions of morals which you brought with you from 
schools must be considerably lowered, and mixed with a 
baser alloy of a jealous and worldly-minded prudence. You 
must learn to do hard, if not unjust things ; and as for the 
nice embarrassments of a delicate and ingenuous spirit, it is 
necessary for you to get rid of them as &st as possible. You 
must shut your heart against the Muses, and be content to 
feed your understanding with plain household truths. In 
short, you must not attempt to enlarge your ideas, or polish 
your taste^ or refine your sentiments; but keep on in one 
beaten track, widiout turning aside either to the right or to 
the left. ^ But I cannot submit to drudgery like this — I feel 
a spirit above it." 'Tis well : be above it then ; only do not 
repine that you are not rick 

Is knowledge the pearl of price % That, too, may be pur- 
chased by steady application and long solitary hours of study 
and reflection. Bestow these, and you shall be wise. <' But," 
says the man of letters, " what a hardship is it, that many an 
illiterate fellow, who cannot construe the motto of the arms 
on his coach, shall raise a fortune and make a figure, while I 
have little more than the common conveniences of life." Bt 
Mi magna satis ! — ^Was it in order to raise a fortune that 
you consumed the i^rightly hours of youth in study and re« 


tirement ? Was it to be rich that jou grew pale over the 
midnight liunp, and distilled the sweetness from the Greek 
and Eoman spring ? You have, then, mistaken your path, 
and ill employed your industry. " What reward have I then 
for all my labors ?" What reward ! A large comprehen- 
sive soul, well purged from vulgar fears, and perturbations, 
and prejudices, able to comprehend and interpret the works of 
man — of God ; a rich, flourishing, cultivated mind, pregnant 
with inexhaustible stores of entertainment and reflection ; a 
perpetual spring of fresh ideas ; and the conscious dignity oi 
superior intelligence. Good heaven 1*— and what reward can 
JOU ask besides ? 

"• But is it not some reproach upon the economy of ProT* 
idence that such a one, who is a mean, dirty fellow, should 
have amassed wealth enough to buy a nation ?" Not in the 
least. He made himself a mean dirty fellow for that vary 
end. He has paid his health, his conscience, his liberty for 
it ; and will you envy him his bargain % Will you hang 
your head and blush in his presence, because he outshines 
you in equipage and show % Lift up your brow with a noble 
confldenoe, and say to yourself, ^ I have not these things, it 
is true ; but it is because I have not sought, because I have 
not desired them. It is 1}eoause I possess something better. 
I have chosen my lot. I am content and satisfied." 

You are a modest man — ^you love quiet and independence, 
and have a delicacy and reserve in your temper which ren- 
ders it impossible for you to elbow your way in the world, 
and be the herald of your own merits. Be content, then, 
with a modest retirement, with the esteem of your intimate 
friends, with the praises of a blameless heart, and a delicate 
ingenuous spirit ; but resign the splendid distinctions of the 
world to those wha can better scramble for them. 

The man whose tender sensibility ai oonseienoe;^ and striet 


regard to the rules of morality, makes him scrupulous and 
fearful of offending, is often heard to complain of the disad- 
vantages he lies under in every path of honor and profit. 
'^ Could I but get over some nice points, and conform to the 
practice and opinion of those about me, I might stand as fair 
a chance as others for dignities and preferment." And why 
can you not ? What hinders you from discarding this 
troublesome scrupulosity of youris which stands so grievously 
in your way ? If it be a small thing to enjoy a healthful 
mind, sound at the very core, that does not shrink from the 
keenest inspection, inward freedom from remorse and per- 
turbation, unsullied whiteness and simplicity of manners, a 
genuine integrity, " pure in the last recesses of the mind," — 
if you think these advantages an inadequate recompense for 
what you resign, dismiss your scruples this instant, and be a 
slave-merchant, a director, or — ^what you please. If these be 
motives too weak, break off by times ; and as you have not 
spirit to assert the dignity of virtue, be wise enough not to 
forego the emoluments of vice. 

I much admire the spirit of the ancient philosophers, in 
that they never attempted, as our moralists often do, to lower 
the tone of philosophy, and make it consistent with all the in- 
dulgences of indolence and sensuality. They never thought 
of having the bulk of mankind for their disciples, but kept 
themselves as distinct as possible from a worldly life ; they 
plainly told men what sacrifices were required, and what ad- 
vantages they were which might be expected. 

Si virtus hoc una potest dare, fortis omissis 
Hoc age deliciis. 

If you would be a philosopher, these are the terms. You 
must do thus and thus. There is no other way. If not, go 
and be one of the vulgar. 


There is no one quality gives so much dignity to a ohar- 
acter as consistency of conduct. Even if a man's pursuits 
be wrong and unjustifiable, yet if they are prosecuted with 
steadiness and vigor, we cannot withhold our admiration. 
The most characteristic mark of a great mind is to choose 
some one important object and pursue it through life. It was 
this made Caesar a great man. His object was ambition ; he 
pursued it steadily, and was always ready to sacrifice to it 
every interfering passion or inclination. 

There is a pretty passage in one of Lucian's dialogues, 
where Jupiter complains to Cupid that though he has had so 
many intrigues, he was never sincerely beloved. " In order 
to be loved," says Cupid, ^^ you must lay aside your segis and 
your thunderbolts, and you must curl your hair and place a 
garland on your head, and walk with a soft step, and assume 
a winning obsequious deportment." '^ But," replied Jupiter, 
" I am not willing to resign so much of my dignity." " Then," 
returns Cupid, " leave off desiring to be loved." — He wanted 
to be Jupiter and Adonis at the same time. 

^ ^atjiafltiinitti of tjit i$i)aiit 3ulinltitn, ivk €v(iu\i 

of tj(t %itig|it $\x Sn)iiiitn(. 


The sequeftered mansion in which, either in reality or in inia§:i. 
nation, we may be reading this poem, must not itself be a Castle of In- 
dolence ; yet everybody delights occasionally in being indolent, or in 
ftncying that he shall have a right to be so some day or other. We 
please ourselyes with pictures of perfect rest, even when we can nei- 
ther ei\joy them, nor mean to do so. We would fkin have the Inznry 
without the harm or the expense ; there is a comer in every one's 
mind in which we nestle . to it ; and hence the enjoyment of such 
poems as this by Thomson, in which every delight of the kind is set 
before us. The second part is not so good as the first. Thomson 
found himself more inspired by the vice than by its consequences. 
And we secretly feel as he and his fellow-idlers did, when Sir In- 
dustry first interrupted them. We resent the termination of our pleas- 
ures, and look upon the reforming knight as a dull and meddling 
fellow. Why should he wake us from such a pleasant dream 1 On 
reflection, however, we see that the fault is not his, but our own ; 
that we should wake up in a far worse manner, if Sir Industry did not 
rouse us. There is beautiful poetry in the second part, even exqui- 
site indolerU-'biis, or places at least in which we miglU be indolent ; in 
fine, we congratulate ourselves on our virtue, and begin, like the 
knight, to abuse the old rascally wizard who had pretended to make 
1)8 his victims. We have retained tl^e best passages in both parts, and 


the best only ; not witboat linking them in such a manner as tha 
stanzas luckily enabled us to do, with no violation to a syllable, ex- 
cept the occasional loss of connection with a rhyme. Alteration was 
out of the question; every word retained is the poet's, and no other 
is admitted. 

ThomsoB, who was once seen eating a peach off a tree with his 
bands in his waistcoat pockets, was fourteen or fifteen years writing 
the CasUe of IndoleTiuj — a fitting period ! We are not to suppose he 
did nothing between whiles. He was both very indolent and very ix^> 
dnstrious, for his miud was always at work on his enjoyments, as the 
world has good reason to know in possessing his SecLSons. And he 
wrote tragedies besides, not so good, but full of humane and generous 
sentiments, with passages worth picking out. He had the luck to be 
made easy in his circumstances by men in power before it was too 
late for him to enjoy what be made others enjoy ; so he lived at Rich- 
mond, singing like one of the birds whom be so justly describes as 
singing the better, the better they are fed ; that is to say, if the genius 
of singing be in them ; for this implies the necessity of giving vent 
to it. 

" WhUt you observe concerning the pursuit of poetry/' says he, in 
a letter to a friend, '' so fkr engaged in it as I am, is certainly just. 
Besides, let him quit it wbo can, and ' erit mihi magnus ApoUo/ or 
something as gy^eat. A tn^e genius, like light, n^ust be beaming forth, 
as a false one is an incurable disease. One would not, however, climb 
Parnassus, any more than your mortal hills, to fix forever on the bar- 
ren top. No ; it is some little dear retirement in the vale below that 
gives the right relish to the prospect, which, without that, is nothing 
but eneiiaDtmeiit ; and thofugh pleasing for some time, at last leaves 
us in a desert The great fiit doctor of Bath* tcHd me that poets 
should be kept poor, the more to animate their genius. This is like 
the cruel custom of putting a bird's eye out that it may sing the 
sweeter ; but, surely, they sing' sweetest amid the luxuriant woods, 
while the full spring blossoms around them." 

Beautifully said is this, and well reasoned too. It is a final answer 
to all the grudgers of a poet's comfort. Singing, it is true, might 
and does console him under any circumstances ; but why should we 

* Supposed to be Dr. Cheyne, who got fat ud melancholy with good UvlDg, 
whereas Thomaon got ftt and merry ; for Cheyoe was an owl, not a stngiiig bird. 


wish him to be consoled, when he can be made happy 1 as happy as 
he would make ourselves 1 

Thomson is a greater poet than the style of the Seasons would lead 
us to suppose. He was too modest to approach Nature in the garb 
of his natural simplicity, so he put on a sort of court suit of classical- 
ity, stuffed out with " taffeta phrases" and " silken terms precise." 
But the true genius is underneath. Perhaps there was something in 
It of a heavy temperament, and of the '* indolence" to which it inclined 
him. He had a warm heart in a gross body. The CasUe of Indolence 
has been thought his best poem, because the style was imitated from 
that of Spenser. It certainly contains as good poetry as any he wrote ; 
and the tone of Spenser is charmingly imitated, with an arch but de- 
lighted reverence. 


The castle hight of Indolence, 

And its false luxury; 
Where for a little time, alas! 

We liv»d right jonily. 

MORTAL man, who livest here by toil, 
Do not complain of this thy hard estato ; 
That, like an emmet, thou must ever moil, 
Is a sad sentence of an ancient date ; 
And, certes, there is for it reason great ; 
For though sometimes it makes thee weep and wail, 
And curse thy star, and early diPtidge and late, 
Withouten that would come a heavier bale. 
Loose life, unruly passions, and diseases pale. 

In lowly dale, fast by a river's side. 

With woody hill o'er hill encompassed round, 

A most enchanting wizard did abide. 

Than whom a fiend more fell is nowhere found. 

It was, I ween, a lovely spot of ground : 

And there, a season atween June and May, 


Half prank t with spring, with summer half embrowned, 
A listless climate made ; where, sooth to say, 
No living wight could work, ne cared eVn for play. 

Was naught around but images of rest, 
Sleep-soothing groves, and quiet lawns between, 
And flowery beds that slumberous influence kest, 
From poppies breath'd, and beds of pleasant green, 
Where never yet was creeping creature seen. 
Meantime unnumber'd glittering streamlets play'd, 
And hurled everywhere their waters sheen ; 
That, as they bicker'd through the sunny glade, 
Though restless still themselves, a lulling murmur mada 

Join'd to the prattle of the purling rills, 
Were heard the lowing herds along the vale, 
And flocks loud-bleating from the distant hills, 
And vacant shepherds piping in the dale : 
And now and then sweet Philomel would wail. 
Or stock-doves plain amid the forest deep. 
That drowsy rustled to the sighing gale ; 
And still a coil the grasshopper did keep ; 
Tet all these sounds yblent inclined all to sleep. 

Full in the passage of the vale, above, 
A sable, silent, solemn forest stood ; 
Where naught but shadowy forms was seen to move, 
As Idless fancy'd in her dreaming mood ; 
And up the hills, on either side, a wood 
Of blackening pines, ay waving to and fro. 
Sent forth a sleepy horror through the blood; 
And where this valley winded out, below, 
The murmuiriDg main wa» heard^ and acaroely heard, to flew. 


A pleasing land of drowsy-head it was, 
Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye, 
And of gay castles in the clouds that pass, 
Forever flushing round a summer sky ; 
There eke the soft delights, that witchingly 
Instil a wanton sweetness through the breast, 
And the calm pleasures always hover'd nigh ; 
But whatever smack'd of noyance and unrest 
Was far, far off expell'd from this delicious nest. 

The landskip such, inspiring perfect ease, 
Where Indolence (for so the wizard hight) 
Close hid his castle *mid embowering trees, 
That half shut out the beams of Phoebus bright, 

And made a kind of chequer'd day and night. 

* * # • # • 

While solitude and perfect silence reign'd, 
So that to think you dreamt you almost was constrained. 

As when a shepherd of the Hebrid Isles, \ 

Plac'd far amid the melancholy main, 
(Whether it be lone fancy him beguiles, 
Or that aerial beings sometimes deign 
To stand embodied to our senses plain) 
Sees on the naked hill or valley low. 
The whilst in ocean Phoebus dips his wain, 
A vast assembly moving to and fro, 
Then all at once in air dissolves the wondrous show. 

The doors that knew no shrill alarming bell, 
Ne cursed knocker ply'd by villain's hand, 
Self-opened into halls, where who can tell 
What elegance and grandeur wide expand. 
The pride of Turkey and of Persia land ? 
Soft quilts on quilts, on carpets carpets spread, 


And couches stretch'd around in seemly band, 
And endless pillows rise to prop the head ; 
So that each spacious room was one full-swelling bed. 

And everywhere huge covered tables stood, 
With wines high-flavor'd and rich viands crown'd ; 
Whatever sprightly juice or tasteful food 
On the green bosom of this earth are found, 
And all old ocean genders in his round : 
Some hand unseen these silently displayed, 
E'en undemanded by a sight or sound ; 
You need but wish, and, instantly obeyed. 
Fair rang'd the dishes rose, and thick the glasses play'd. 

The rooms with costly tapestry were hung. 
Where was inwoven many a gentle tale. 
Such as of old the rural poets sung. 
Or of Arcadian or Sicilian vale ; 
Reclining lovers in the lonely dale 
Pour'd forth at large the sweetly tortur'd heart. 
Or, sighing tender passion, swell'd the gale. 
And taught charm'd Echo to resound their smart. 
While flocks, woods, streams, around, repose and peace impart. 

Each sound, too, here to languishment inclined, 
LulPd the weak bosom, and induc'd to ease ; 
Aerial music in the warbling wind. 
At distance rising oft, by small degrees 
Nearer and nearer came, till o'er the trees 
It hung, and breath'd such soul-dissolving airs 
As did, alas ! with soft perdition please : 
Entangled deep in its enchanting snares. 
The listening heart forgot all duties and all carea 


A certain musio, never known before,* 
Here lull'd the pensive melancholy mind ; 
Full easily obtained. Behooves no more, 
But sidelong to the gently-waving wind, 
To lay the well-tun*d instrument reclin'd. 
From which, with airy-flying fingers light, 
Beyond each mortal touch the most refin'd, 
The god of winds drew sounds of deep delight, 
Whence, with just cause, the harp of ^olus it hight. 

Ah me ! what hand can touch the string so fine ? 
Who up the lofty diapason roll 
Such sweet, such sad, such solemn airs divine, 
Then let them down again into the soul ? 
Now, rising love they £a.nn'd ; now, pleasing dole 
They breath'd in tender musings through the heart ; 
And now a graver sacred strain they stole, 
As when seraphic hands an hymn impart ; 
Wild-warbling Nature all, above the reach of art ! 

Such the gay splendor, the luxurious state 
Of Caliphs old, who, on the Tigris shore. 
In mighty Bagdat, populous and great. 
Held their bright court, where was of ladies store, 
And verse, love, music, still the garland wore. 
When sleep was coy, the bard, in waiting there, 
Cheer'd the lone midnight with the Muses' lore : 
Composing music bade his dreams be fair, ^ 

And music lent new gladness to the morning air. 

Near the pavilions where we slept still ran 
Soft tinkling streams, and dashing waters fell, 
And sobbing waters sigh'd, and oft began 
(So work'd the wizard) wintry storms to swell, 

* The ^olian harp, just then invented. 


As heaven and earth they would together mell ; 
At doors and windows threatening seem'd to call 
The demons of the tempest growling fell ; 
Yet the least entrance found they none at all, 
Where sweeter grew our sleep, secure in mossy halL 

One great amusement of our household was, 
In a huge crystal magic globe to spy, 
Still as you tum'd it, all things that do pass 
Upon this ant-hill earth ; where constantly 
Of idly-busy men the restless fry 
Run bustling to and fro with foolish haste 
In search of pleasures vain that from them fly, 
Or which obtain'd the caitifis dare not taste : 
When nothing is enjoy'd, can there be greater waste ? 

Of vanity the mirror this was call'd. 
Here- you a muckworm of the town might see 
At his dull desk, amid his ledgers stall'd. 
Ate up with carking care and penurie. 
Most like to carcase parch'd on gallows tree. 
" A penny sav6d is a penny got ;" 
Firm to this sooundrel-maxim keepeth he, 
Ne of its rigor will he bate a jot, 
Till it has quenched his fire and banished his pot. 

Strait from the filth of this low grub, behold I 
Comes fluttermg forth a gaudy spendthrift heiir, 
All glossy gay, enamell'd all with gold. 
The silly tenant of the summer air. 
In folly lost, of nothing takes he care ; 
Pimps, lawyers, stewards, harlots, flatterers vile, 
' And thieving tradesmen him among them share ,* 

His father's ghost from Limbo Lake the while 
Sees this, which more damnation doth upon him pile. 


Of all the gentle tenants of the place, 
There was a man of special grave remark '* 
A certain tender gloom o'erspread his face, 
Pensive, not sad ; in thought involved, not dark ; 
As soot this man would sing as morning lark, 
And teach the noblest morals of the heart ; 
But these his talents were yburied stark ; 
Of the fine dtores he nothing would impart, 
Which or boon Nature gave, or nature-painting Art. ^ 

To noontide shades incontinent he ran, 
Where purls the brook with sleep-inviting sound, 
Or when Dan Sol to slope his wheels began. 
Amid the broom he bask'd him on the ground, 
Where the wild thyme and camomil are found; 
There would he linger, till the latest ray 
Of light sate trembling on the welkin's bound ; 
Then homeward through the twilight shadows stray 
Sauntering and slow : so had he passed many a day. 

Yet not in thoughtless slumber were they past; 
For oft the heavenly fire, that lay conceal'd 
Beneath the sleeping embers, mounted fast, 
And all its native light anew reveaPd. 
Oft as he travers'd the cerulean field. 
And mark'd the clouds that drove before the wind 
Ten thousand glorious systems would he build, 
Ten thousand great ideas fill'd his mind ; 
But with the clouds they fled, and left no trace behin'*' 

With him was sometimes join'd in silent walk, 
(Profoundly silent, for they never spoke,) 

* Who this person was, does not appear to have been di8covw<cd. 


One shier still,* who quite detested talk ; 
Oft stung by spleen, at once away he broke 
To groves of pine and broad overshadowing oak ; 
There, inly thrill'd, he wandered all alone, 
And on himself his pensive fury wroke,* 
Ne never uttered word save when first shone 
The glittering star of eve — ^^ Thank Heaven, the day is done !" 

Here lurk'd a wretch who had not crept abroad 
For forty years, ne face of mortal seen j 
In chamber brooding like a loathly toad, 
And sure his linen was not very clean ; 
Through secret loop-holes that had practised been 
Near to his bed, his dinner vile he took ; 
Unkempt and rough, of squalid &ce amd mien. 
Our Castle's shame ; whence, from his filthy nook, 

We drove the villain out, for fitter lair to look. 


One day there chaunc'd into these hills to rove 
A joyous youth,t who took you at first sight; 
Him the wild wave of- pleasure hither drove 
Before the sprightly tempest tossing light ; 
Certes, he was a most engaging wight, 
Of social glee, and wit humane tho' keen, 
Turning the night to day and day to night ; 
For him the merry bells had rung I ween, 
If in this nook of quiet bells had ever been. 

But not e'en pleasure to excess is good ; 
What most elates, then sinks the soul as low ; 

* Supposed to be Armstrong. 

t Probably the author's fHend Patterson, his deputy in the ofSce 
of Surveyor-General of the Leeward Islands. 



When spring-tide joy pours in with copious flood, 
The higher still th* exulting billows flow, 
The farther back again they flagging go, 
And leave us grovelling on the dreary shore. 
Taught by this, son of Joy, we found it so. 
Who, whilst he staid, kept in a gay uproar 
Our madden'd Castle all, the abode of Sleep no more. 

As when in prime of June a bumish'd fly. 
Sprung from the meads, o'er which he sweeps along, 
Cheered by the breathing bloom and vital sky. 
Tunes up amid these airy halls his song, 
Soothing at first the gay reposing throng ; 
And oft he sips their bowl ; or, nearly drowned, 
He, thence recovering, drives their beds among, 
And scares their tendei^ sleep with trump profound, 
Then out again he flies to wing his mazy round. 

Another guest there was of sense refin*d,* 
Who felt each worth, for every worth he had ; 
Serene, yet warm ; humane, yet firm hb mind ; 
As little touched as any man's with bad : 
Him through their inmost walks the Muses lad. 
To him the sacred love of Nature lent. 
And sometimes would he make our valley glad ; 
When as we foimd he would not here be pent. 
To 4dm the better sort this firiendly message sent — 

" Come, dwell with us, true son of Virtue ! come ; 
But if, alas ! we cannot thee persuade 
To lie content beneath our peaceful dome 
Ne ever more to quit our quiet glade, 

• Lord Lyttleton. 


Yet when at last thy toils, but ill apaid, 
Shall dead thy fire, and damp its heavenly spark, 
Thou wilt be glad to seek the rural shade. 
There to indulge the Muse, and Natifre mark ; 
We then a lodge for thee will rear in Hagley Park." 

Here whilom ligg*d th* Esopus of the age,* 
But caird by Fame, in soul yprickdd deep, 
A noble pride restored him to the stage. 
And roused him like a giant from his sleep. 
E'en from his slumbers we advantage reap : 
With double force th' enlivened scene he wakes, 
Yet quits not Nature's bounds. He knows to keep 
Each due decorum. Now the heart he shakes, 
And now with well-urged sense th' enlightened judgment takes. 

A bard here dwelt, more fat than bard beseems,! 
Who void of envy, guile, or lust of gain. 
On Virtue still, and Nature's pleasing themes, 
Pour'd forth his unpremeditated strain ; 
The world forsaking with a calm disdain. 
Here laugh'd he careless in his easy seat ; 
Here quaflPd encircled by the joyous train, 
Oft moralizing sage ; his ditty sweet 
He loathed much to write, ne car^d to repeat. 

Full oft by holy feet our groimd was trod ; 

Of clerks good plenty here you mote espy ; ^ 

A little, round, fat, oily man of God, J 

Was one I chiefly mark'd among the fry : 

He had a roguish twinkle in his eye, 

^ Quin, the actor. 

f Thomson himself. All but the first line of this stanza is under* 
stood to have been written by a friend. :; : 

i The Bey. Mr. Murdoch, the poet's fiist biographer. 


And shone all glittering with ungodly dew, 
If a tight damsel chanced to trippen by ; 
Which when observed, he shrunk into his mew. 
And strait would recollect his piety anew. 

Nor be forgot a tribe who minded naught 
(Old inmates of the place) but state affairs ; 
They looked, perdie, as if they deeply thought^ 
And on their brow sat every nation's oares. 
The world by them is parceled out in shares. 
When in the Hall of Smoke they congress hold^ 
And the sage berry sun-burnt Mocha bears 
Has clear'd their inward eye, then smoke-enroll'd, 
Their oracles break forth, mysterious as of old. 

Here languid beauty kept her pale-fac'd court : 
Bevies of dainty dames of high degree 
From every quarter hither made resort, 
Where, from gross mortal care and business free, 
They lay pour'd out, in ease and luxury : 
Or should they a vain show of work assume, 
Alas ! and well-a-day ! what can it be ? 
To knot, to twist, to range the vernal bloom ; 
But far is cast the distaff, spinning-wheel, and loom. 

Their only labor was to kill the time ; 
And labor dire it is, and weary woe : 
f^hey sit, they loll, turn o*er some idle rhyme, 
Then, rising sudden, to the glass they go, 
Or saunter forth with tottering step and slow : 
This soon too rude an exercise they find ; 
Strait on the couch their limbs again they throw ; 
Where hours and hours they sighing lie reclined. 
And court the vapory god, soft breathing in the wind. 


Now must I mark tlie villanywe found ; 
But ah ! too late, as shall eftsoo^s be shoym. 
A place here was, deep, dreary, underground, 
Where still our inmates, when unpleasing grown, 
Diseas'd and loathsome, priTUy were thrown. 
Far from the light of heaven, they languish'd there 
Unpitied, uttering many a bitter groan : 
For of these wretches taken was no care ; 
Fierce fiends and hags of hell their only nurses were. 

* Al^ ! the change ! from scenes of joy and rest, 
To this dark den, where sickness toss'd alway. 
Here Lethargy, with deadly sleep opprest, 
Stretched on his back, a mighty lubbard, lay, 
Heaving his sides, and snored night and day. 
To stir him from his traunce it was not eath i 
And his half-o{)en'd eyne he shut straitway ; 

He led, I wot, the softest way to death. 
And taught withouten pain and strife to yield the breath. 

Of limbs enormous, but withal xmsound, 
Soft-swol'n and pale, here lay the Hydropsy : 
Unwieldy man ! with belly monstrous round, 
Forever fed with watery supply : 
For still he drank, and yet he still was dry. 
And moping here did H3rpochondria sit, 
Mother of Spleen, in robes of various dye, 
Who vex^d was full oft with ugly fit ; 
And some her frantic deem'd, and some her deem'd a wit. 

A lady proud she was, of ancient blood, 

Tet oft her fear her pride made crouchen.low ] 

* These four condudlDg stanzas of Canto I. were written by Arm- 


She felt, or fancied, in her fluttering mood, 
All the diseases which the spittles know. 
And sought all physic which the shops bestow, 
And still new leeches and new drugs would try, 
Her humor ever wavering to and fro ; 
For sometimes she would laugh, and sometimes cry, 
Then sudden wax^d wroth, and all she knew not why. 

Fast by her side a listless maiden pin'd. 
With achmg head, and squeamish heart-burnings ; 
Pale, bloated, cold, she seem'd to hate mankind. 
Yet lov'd in secret all forbidden things. 
And here the Tertian shakes his chilling wings : 
The sleepless Gout here coimts the crowing cocks \ 
A wolf now gnaws him, now a serpent stings : 
Whilst Apoplexy cramm'd Intemperance knocks 
Down to the ground at once, as butcher felleth ox. 


The Knight of Arts and Industry, 
And his achievementa fair, 
That by his Castle's overthrow 
SecurM and crowndd were. 

ESCAP'D the Castle of the Sire of Sin, 
Ah I where shall I so sweet a dwelling find ? 
For all around without, and all within. 
Nothing save what delightful was and kind, 
Of goodness savoring and a tender mind, 
E'er rose to view : but now another strain 
Of doleful note, alas ! remains behind ; 
I now must sing of pleasure tum'd to pain, 
And of the false enchanter Indolence complain. 


la there do patron to protect the Muse, 
And fence for her Parnassus' barren soil? 
To every labor its reward accrues, 
And they are sure of bread who swink and moil ; 
But a fell tribe th' Aonian hive despoil. 
As ruthless wasps oft rob the painful bee : 
Thus while the laws not guard that noblest toil, 
Ne for the Muses other meed decree, 
They praised are alone, and starve right merrily. 

I care not, Fortune, what you me deny ; 
You cannot rob me of free Nature's grace ; 
You cannot shut the windows of the sky. 
Through which Aurora shows her brightening &oe; 
You cannot bar my constant feet to trace 
The woods and lawns, by living stream, at eve :. 
Let health my nerves and finer fibres brace, 
And I their toys to the great children leave : 
Of fancy, reason, virtue, naught can me bereave. 

Come then, my Muse ! and raise a bolder song; 
Come, lig no more upon the bed of sloth, 
Dragging the lazy languid line along, 
Fond to begin, but still to finish loath. 
Thy half-wit scrolls all eaten by the moth ; 
Arise, and sing that generous imp of fiune, 
Who with the sons of Softness nobly wroth, 
To sweep away this human lumber came, 
Or in a chosen few to rouse the slumbering fiame. 

The tidings reached to where, in quiet hall. 
The good old knight enjoy'd well-eamt repose. 
" Come, come, Sir Knight, thy children on thee call : 
Gome save us yet, ere ruin round us close, 


The demon Indolence thy toil o'erthrows.** 
On this the noble color stain'd his cheeks, 
Indignant, glowing thro' the whitening snows 
Of venerable eld ; his eye full-speaks 
His ardent soul, and from his couch at once he breaks. 

I will (he cried) so help me, God ! destroy 
That villain Archimage. — His page then strait 
He to him called, a fiery-footed boy, 
Benempt Dispatch. '^ My steed be kt the gate ; 
My bard attend ; quick, bring the net of Fate." 
This net was twisted by the Sisters three, 
Which when once cast o'er hardened wretch, too late 
Bepentance comes ; replevy cannot be 
From the strong iron grasp of vengeful Destiny. 

He came, the bard, a little Druid-wight, 
Of withered aspect ; but his eye was keen. 
With sweetness mix'd. In russet gown bedight, 
As is his sister of the copses green, 
He crept along, unpromising of mien. 
Gross he who judges so. His soul was fair, 
Bright as the children of yon azure sheen. 
True comeliness, which nothing can impair. 
Dwells in the mind ; all else is vanity and glare. 

" Come" (quoth the knight), " a voice has reach'd mine ear : 
The demon Indolence threats overthrow 
To all that to mankind is good and dear : 
Come, Philomelus i let us instant go, 
O'ertum his bowers, and lay his Castle low. 
Those men, those wretched men ! who will be slaves, 
Must drink a bitter wrathful cup of woe ; 
But some there be thy song, as from their graves, 
Shall raise. Thrice happy he ! who without rigor saves.** 


Thus holding high discourse, they came to where 
The cursed carle was at his wonted trade, 
Still tempting heedless men into his snare, 
In witching wise, as I hefore have said ; 
But when he saw, in goodly gear array'd, 
The grave majestic knight approaching nigh, 
And by his side the bard so sage and staid, 
His countenance fell ; yet oft his anxious eye 
Marked them, like wily fox who roosted cock doth spy. 

Nathless, with feign'd respect he bade give back 
The rabble rout, and welcomed them full kind ; 
Struck with the noble twain, they were nof" slack 
His orders to obey, and fall behind. 
Then he resumed his song, and, unconfin'd, 
Pour'd all his music, ran thro' all his strings ; 
With magic dust their eyne he tries to blind, 
And virtue^s tender airs o'er weakness flings. 
What pity base his song, who so divinely sings ! 

Elate in thought he counted them his own, 
They listened so intent with fix'd delight ; 
But they, instead, as if transmew'd to stone, 
Marvell'd he could with isuch sweet art unite 
The lights and shades of manners wrong and right 
Meantime the silly crowd the charm devour, 
Wide pressing to the gate. Swift on the knight 
He darted fierce to drag him to his bower, 
Who back'ning shunn'd his touch, for well he knew his power. 

As in throng'd amphitheatre, of old. 
The wary Betiarius trapped his foe. 
E'en so the knight, returning on him bold. 
At onee involved him in the net of woe, 



Whereof I mention made not long ago. 
Enrag'd at first, be scom'd so weak a jail, 
And leapt, and flew, and flounced to and fro ; 
But when he found that nothing could avail. 
He sat him felly down, and gnaw'd his bitter nalL 

Alarm'd, th' inferior demons of the place 
Bais'd rueful shrieks and hideous yells around ; 
Black stormy clouds deform'd the welkin's face, 
And from beneath was heard a wailing sound, 
As of infernal sprights in cavern bound ; 
A solemn sadness every creature strook 
And lightnings flash'd, and horror rocked the ground ; 
Huge crowds on crowds outpour'd with blemish'd look. 
As if on time's last verge this frame of things had shook. 

Soon as the short-liv'd tempest was yspent, 
Steam'd from the jaws of vext Avemus' hole, 
And hush'd the hubbub of the rabblement, 
Sir Industry the first calm moment stole. 
" There must" (he cried), " amid so vast a shoal, 
Be some who are not tainted at the heart. 
Not poisoned quite by this same villain's bowl ; 
Gome then, my Bard ! thy heavenly fire impart ; 
Touch soul with soul, till forth the latent spirit start" 

The bard obey'd ; and taking from his side. 

Where it in seemly sort depending hung. 

His British harp, its speaking strings he try'd, 
' The which with skilful touch he deftly strung. 

Till tinkling in clear symphony they rung : 

Then, as he felt the Muses come along, 

Light o'er the chords, his raptured hand he flung^ 

And play'd a prelude to his rising song ; 
The whilst, like midnight mute, ten thousands round him throng. 


Thus ardent burst his strain — ^^ Yq hapless raee ! 
Dire-laboring here to smother Eeason's raj, 
That lights our Maker's image ia oar £euie, 
And gives us Tfide o'er earth unquestioned sway, 
What is th' ador'd Supreme Perfection, say % 
What, but eternal never-resting soul, 
Almighty power, and all-directing day. 
By whom each atom stirs, the planets roll ; 
Who fills, surrounds,, informs, and agitates the whole. 

" Is not the field, with lively culture green, 
A sight more joyous than the dead morass ? 
Do not the skiea with active ether clean 
And fanned by sprightly Zephyrs, far surpass 
The foul November fogs, and slumb'rous masa 
With which sad Nature veils her drooping face ? 
Does not the mountain-stream, as clear as glass, 
Gay-dancing on, the putrid pool disgrace? 
The same in all holds true, but chief in human race. 

^ Had imambitious mortals minded naught 
But in loose joy their time to wear away, 
Had they alone the lap of Dalliance sought, 
Pleas'd on their pillow their dull heads to lay, 
Eude Nature's state had been our state to-day;. 
No cities e'er their towery fronts had rais'd, . 
No arts had made us opulent and gay ,- 
With brother-brutes the human race had graz'd ; 
None e'er had soar'd to fame, none honor'd been, none prais'd. 

<' Great Home's song had never fir'd the breast. 
To thirst of glory and* heroic deeds ; 
Sweet Maro's muse, sunk in inglorious rest^ 
Had silent slept asudthe Minpian reeds : 



The wits of modem time had told their beads, 
And monkish legends been their only strains ; 
Oar Milton's Eden had lain wrapped in weeds, 
Our Shakspeare stroll'd and laugh'd with Warwick swains, 
Ne had my master Spenser oharm'd his Molla's plains. 

^But should to fame yoor hearts unfeeling be, 
If right I read, you pleasure all require ; 
Then hear how best may be obtained this fee. 
How best enjoy'd this Nature's wide desire. 
Toil, and be glad; let industry inspire 
Into your quicken'd limbs her buoyant breath ] 
Who does not act, is dead : absorpt entire 
In miry sloth, no pride, no joy he hath ; 
leaden-hearted Men, to be in loye with death I 

" who can speak the vigorous joys of health ; 
Unclogg'd the body, unobscur'd the mind ; 
The morning rises gay, with pleasing stealth, 
The temperate evening falls serene and kind ; 
In health the wiser brutes true gladness find j 
See ! how the younglings frisk along the meads. 
As May comes on, and wakes the balmy wind \ 
Bampant with life, their joy all joy exceeds ; 
Yet what but high-strung health this dancing pleasaunce 

" There are, I see, who listen to my lay. 
Who wretched sigh for virtue, but despair. 
All may be done, (methinks I hear them say,) 
E'en death despis'd, by generous actions fair ; 
All but for those who to these bowers repair; 
Their every power dissolVd in luxury. 
To quit of torpid Sluggishness the lidr. 


And from the powerful arms of Sloth get free 
'Tis rising from the dead — alas ! — ^it cannot be ! 

'^ Would you then learn to dissipate the band 
Of these huge threatening difficulties dire, 
That in the weak man's way like lions stand. 
His soul appall, and damp his rising fire 1 
Besolve, resolve, and to be men aspire. 
Exert that noble privilege, alone, 
Here to mankind indulg'd ; control desire ; 
Let godlike Reason, from her sovereign throne, 
Speak the commanding word, I will ! — and it is done. 

'^ Heavens I can you then thus waste, in shameful wiB6| 
Your few important days of trial here 7 
Heirs of eternity ! yborn to rise 
Through endless states of being, still more near 
To bliss approaching, and perfection clear? 
Can you renounce a fortune so sublime ? 
Such glorious hopes, your backward steps to steer. 
And roll, with vilest brutes, through mud and slime ? 
No I nol your heaven-touch'd hearts disdain the sordid 
crime !" 

'^Enough ! enough I" they cried. Strait from the crowd 
The better sort on wings of transport fly ; 
As when amid the lifeless summits proud 
Of Alpine cliffs, where to the gelid sky 
Snows pil'd on snows in wintry torpor lie. 
The rays divine of vernal Phoebus play, 
Th' awaken'd heaps, in streamlets from on high, 
Rous'd into action, lively leap away, 
Gkd-warbling through the vales, in their new being gay. 


But far the greater part with rage inflam'd, 
Dire-mutter'd curses, and blasphem'd high Jova 
" Ye sons of Hate f (they bitterly exclaim' d), 
^ What brought you to this seat of peace and love ? 
While with kind Nature, here amid the groye, 
We passed the harmless sabbath of our time. 
What to disturb it could, fell men, emove 
Your barbarous hearts ? Is happiness a crime ? 
Then do the fiends of hell rule in yon heaven sublime.'* 

^ Ye impious wretches !'' (quoth the knight in wrath), 
" Your happiness behold !" — then strait a wand 
He wav'd, an anti-magic power that hath 
Truth from illusive falsehood to command. 
Sudden the landscape sinks on every hand ; 
The pure quick streams are marshy puddles found ; 
On baleful heaths the groves all blacken'd stand ; 
And o'er the weedy, foul, abhorred ground. 
Snakes, adders, toads, each loathsome creature crawlsr around. 

And here and there, on trees by lightning scath'd, 
Unhappy wights, who loathed life, yhung ; 
Or in fresh gore and recent murder bath'd. 
They weltering lay ; or else, infuriate flung 
Into the gloomy flood, while ravens sung 
The funeral dirge, they down the torrent rolPd : 
These by distemper'd blood to madness stung. 
Had doom'd themselves ; whence oft, when night ocm- 
The world, returning hither their sad spirits howl'd. 

Attended by a glad acclaiming train 

Of those he rescued had &om gaping hell, 


Then tum'd the knight, and to his hall again 
Soft pacing, sought of Peace the mossy cell ; 
Yet down hia cheeks the gems of pity fell, 
To see the helpless wretches that remained, 
There left through delves and deserts dire to yell ; 
Amaz'd, their looks with pale dismay were stain'd, 
And spreaking wide their hands, they meek repeutanc; feiga'd. 

But, ah ! their scorned day of grace was past ; 
For (horrible to tell) a. desert wild 
Before them stretoh'd, bare^ comfortless^ and: Yast| 
With gibbets, bones, and carcases defd'd. 
There nor trim field, nor liyely culture smiled, 
Nor waving shade was seen, nor mountain fair ; 
But sands abrupt on sand^ lay loosely piTd, 
Thro' which they floundering toil'd with painful care, 
Whilst Phoebus smote them sore, and flr'd the cloudless air. 

Then, varying to a joyless land of bogs,: 
The sadden'd country a gray waste appeared. 
Where naught but putrid streams and noisome fogs 
Forever hung on drizzly Auster's beard ; 
Or else the ground by piercing Oauanis sear'd, 
Was jagg'd with frost, or heaped with glazed snow : 
Thro' these extremes a ceaseless round they steer'd, 
By cruel fiends still hurried to and fro. 
Gaunt Beggary, and Scorn, with many hell-hounds moe. 

The first was with base dunghill rags yclad, 
Tainting the gale in which they fluttered light ; 
Of morbid hue, his features sunk and sad ; 
His hollow eyne shook forth a sickly light ; 
And o'er his lank jaw-bone, in piteous plight, 
His black rough beard was matted rank and vile ] 



Direful to see I an heart-appalling sight I 
Meantime foul scnrf and blotches him defile, 
And dogs, where'er he went, still barked all the while. 

The other was a fell despightful fiend : 
Hell holds none worse in baleful bower below ; 
By pride, and wit, and rage, and rancor, keen'd ; 
Of man alike, if good or bad, the foe ; 
With nose upturned, he always made a show, 
As if he smelt some nauseous scent ; his eye 
Was cold and keen, like blast from boreal snow, 
And taunts he casten forth most bitterly. 
Such were the twain that off drove this ungodly fry. 

E'en so thro' Brentford town, a town of mud, 
An herd of bristly swine is prick'd along ; 
The filthy beasts, that never chew the cud, 
Still grunt, and squeak, and sing their troublous song, 
And oft they plunge themselves the mire among ; 
But aye the ruthless driver goads them on, 
And aye, of barking dogs the biter throng 
Makes them renew their unmelodious moan ; 
Ne ever find they rest from their unresting fone. 


These stories, with the exception of two, compose the entire set 
contributed by this great master of character and sentiment to the 
Tatler, Spectator, and Guardian. They are remarkable for going to 
the heart of their subjects with a comprehensive brevity ; and are 
just such stories as a man might tell over his wine to a party of 
friends. Addison's stories are of a more fanciflil sort, and more ele- 
gant in the style ; some of them are charming ; but they are pieces 
of writing — these are relations. They have all the warmth as well as 
brevity of unpremeditated accounts, given as occasion called them 
foi*th. Steele, indeed, may be said to have always talked, rather 
than written ; and hence the beauties as well as defects of his slyle, 
which is apt to be too carelessly colloquial. 

Steele, like Fielding, Smollett, Gbldsmith— in fkct, like almost all 
our most entertaining wits and novelists, not excepting (on a great scale) 
Sir Walter Scott himself— was an impulsive and imprudent man, not 
attentive enough to his outlays, and too sanguine about his income. 
He warranted, perhaps, the remonstrances of his staider friend Ad- 
dison ; and was more touched than comforted by them, from feeling 
that they were useless. The remonstrances (if they were of the harsh 
and practical nature they are said to have been), would have come 
with less ungraciousness tcom a more genial and generous man ; that 
is to say, supposing such a man would h§ve thought them advisable. 
Objections to men like Steele come indeed with grace from none but 


generous persons, liable to his temptations, and superior to them. 
8nch persons have made snch objections, though not unaccompanied 
with assumptions that might have been spared ; probably in conse- 
quence of the re-action in Steele's favor in the writings of Hazlitt 
and others. The objections, however, deserve to be respectfVilIj re- 
plied to ; and the Just reply, we think, is, that you must consider 
every writer and every man as the result of all the circumstances that 
have made him what he is, bodily and mental, and then Judge whether 
that result is a gain and pleasure to the world, and a compensation 
for the less allowable of those circumstances. For a man cannot be 
one man and another too ; cannot be Steele and Addison both ; at 
least we are not aware that any such person has been met with, how- 
ever modified the varieties of their like may be. Would you have 
had no such thing as Steele's imprudence, and been content to lose 
the TaMer and the Guardian 7 as Fielding's, and been without Tom 
Jones and Amelia? as Smollett's, and had no Roderick Random or 
Hvmphrey Clinker? Or, if you say that Addison .could have written, 
and did write, as good and humorous things as those, will you say 
that the others did not write with a difference from Addison ; and 
with such a difference as the world strongly feels and highly delights 
in 1 You will grant this of course. What constitutes, then, the dif- 
ference of Steele,^ of Fielding, and of SmoUet, from such a writer as 
Addison 1 and could that difference have delighted us as it does, had 
it not resulted fVom the entire natures and circumstances of the 
men 1 Very foolish and very presumptuous, we grant, would it be in 
any given imprudent person to quote their example in his defence, 
even though he should turn out some day to have had warrant for it, . 
or be regarded with indulgence meantime by such as think he has. 
Those who have nothing in them to justify such an exceptional con- 
sideration, come under another category altogether, whatever may be 
said in their excuse ; and those who have something, must be content 
modestly to await the chance of its recognition, and to pay in the 
meantime the penalty of its drawbacks. 

If there were no worse men in the world than Steele, what a planet 
we should have of it ? Steele knew his own foibles as well as auy 
man. He regretted^ and made amends for them, and left posterity a 
name for which they have reason to thank and love him. Posterity 
thanks Addison too ; but it can hardly be said to love him, even by the 
help of the good old knight &r Roger, whom Steele invented for him. 


Perhaps they would have loved him more, had he too confessed his 
faults ; or eyen had he told them in what the only one consisted, at 
which he hinted when he sent for Gay on his death-hed, and asked 
his pardon for having done him some wrong. Steele asked pardon 
for wrong, long before he died. The last thing we hear of him is 
neither a solitary acknowledgment nor a Christian vaunt, but his sit- 
ting out of doors in his retirement, giving the village maidens prizes 
to contend for. He said modestly of his life— (far too modestly, for 
he was a loving husband and father, and a disinterested patriot), that 
it " was but pardonable •" and in his beautiM effosion to the memory 
of his fHend Estconrt the comedian, he expressed his gratitude to that 
honest mimic for having made him sensible of his defects, and taught 
him to care for nothing but the subjection of his wilL 

The reader will find the passage below.* 

Truly curious was it, and lucky for the world that IMck Steele and 
Joseph Addison should have grown up together from childhood, and 
become the Beaumont and Fletcher of social ethics. But they had 

* *i What waa peculiarly excellent in this memorable companicm wan, that in the 
accounts he gave of persons and sentiments he did not only hit the figure of their 
faces and manner of their gestures, but he would, in his narrations, fkll into their 
way of thinking, and this when he recounted passages wherein men of the best wits 
were concerned, as well as such whwein were represented men of the lowest rank 
of understanding. It is certain as great an instance of self-love to a weakness, to 
be impatient of being mimicked, as any can be imagined. There were none but the 
vain, the ibrma], the proud, or those who were incapable of amending their fanltSy 
dreaded him ; to others he was in the highest degree pleasing : and I do not know any 
satisfaction of any different kind I ever tasted so much, as having got over an im- 
patience of seeing myself in the air he could put me when I had displeased him. It 
is indeed owing to his exquisite talent this way, more than any philosophy I could 
read on the subject, that my person is very little of my care ; and it is indefferent ta 
me what is said of my shape, my air, my manner, my speech, or my address. It is to 
poor Estcourt I chiefly owe, that I am arrived at the h^piness of tibiilking nothing: 
a diminution to me, but what argues a depravity of my will. 

• • • « • • 4> 

** I have been present with him among m«a of the most delicate taste the whole 
night, and have known him (for he saw it was desired) keep the discourse to him- 
self the most part of it, and maintain his good-humor with a countenance and in 
a language so delightful, without offence to any person or thing upon earth, i^l 
preserving the distance his circumstances obliged him to ; I say, I have seen him 
do all this in such a charming manner, that I am sure none of those I hint at will 
read this, without giving some sorrow for their abundant mirth, and one gush of 
tears for so many bursts of laughter. I wish it wei^ any honor to the pteaaani 
creature's memory, that my eyes are too much soffuaed to let me go o a ■ • * * 


tastes in common, and admirable waa the result; a music mors 
charming for the counter-point ; Addison's hand the staider and the 
calmer, the more artful, the more informed, yet playful withal, though 
never losing its self-possession ; — Steele's the more wandering and 
capricious, the lighter, the less solemn, yet now and then toachipg 
forth notes of a more tender sweetness, and such as fill the eyes with 
tears. Addison knew nothing of those. 

The reader will find evidences of this pathos in most of the fbllow- 
ing stories. Those of Valentine and Unnion^ and Inkk and YaHco^ he 
has probably been acquainted with from childhood ; but they are re- 
peated for that reason. Both are master-pieces; the latter would 
be not unworthy of perusal after one of Chaucer's. The Dream is 
lovely ; and the Fire, and the Wedding Day, heart-rending. It is re* 
markable, considering the gaiety of most of Steele's writings, that 
tiiere should be only one comic stoiy out of the eight. The husband's 
flopping down by the side of his wife, and whispering in her insenaible 
ear, is very ludicrous. 


AT the siege of Namur by the allies, there were in the 
ranks of the company commanded by Captain Pincent, 
in Colonel Frederick Hamilton's regiment, one Unnion a cor- 
poral, and one Valentine a private sentinel ; there happened 
between these two men a dispute about a matter of love, 
which upon some aggravations grew to an irreconcilable 
hatred. Unnion, being the officer of Valentine, took all op- 
portunities even to strike his rival, and profess the spite and 
revenge which moved him to it. The sentinel bore it with- 
out resistance, but frequently said he would die to be re- 
venged of that t3rrant. They had spent whole months thus, 
one injuring, the other complaining, when in the midst of 
this rage towards each other they were commanded upon the 
attack of the castle, where the corporal received a shot in 
the thigh, and fell ; the French pressing on, and he expeot- 


ing to be trampled to death, called oat to his enemy, '' Ah, 
Valentine ! can you leave me here ?" Valentine immediately 
ran back, and in the midst of a thick fire of the French took 
the corporal upon his back and brought him through all that 
danger as far as the Abbey of Salsine, where a cannon ball 
took off his head : his body fell under his enemy, whom he 
was carrying off. Unnion immediately forgot his wound, 
rose up, tearing his hair, and then threw himself upon the 
bleeding carcase, crying, " Ah, Valentine ! was it for me who 
have so barbarously used thee, that thou hast died ? I will 
not live after thee." He was not by any means to be forced 
from the body, but was removed with it bleeding in his arms, 
and attended with tears by all their comrades who knew their 
enmity. When he was brought to a tent his wounds were 
dressed by force ; but the next day, still calling upon Valen- 
tine, and lamenting his cruelties to him, he died in the pangs 
of remorse and despair. 


CLARINDA and Chloe, two very fine women, were bred 
up as sisters in the family of Borneo, who was the father 
of Chloe and guardian of Clarinda. Philander, a young gen- 
tleman of a good person and charming conversation, being a 
friend of old Eomeo, frequented his house, and by that means 
was much in conversation with the young ladies, though still 
in the presence of the father and the guardian. The ladies 
both entertained a secret passion for him, and could see well 
enough, notwithstanding the delight which he really took in 
Romeo*s conversation, that there was something more in his 
heart which made him so assiduous a visitant. Each of them 
thpught herself the happy woman, but the person beloved 


vas Chloe. It happened tb&t both of them weve aA a play 
on a carnival evening, when it is the fashion there^* as weU 
as in most countries of Europe, both for men and wom^i, to 
appear in masks and disguises. It was in that memorable 
night in the year 1679, when the playhouse by some unhappy 
accident was set on fire. Philander, in the first hurry of the 
disaster, immediately ran where his treasure was, burst open 
the door of the box, snatched the lady up in his arms, and 
with unspeakable resolution and good fortune carried her off 
safe. He was no sooner out of the crowd but he set her 
down, and grasping her in his arms with all the raptures of a 
deserving lover, " How happy am I," says he, '^ in an oppor- 
tunity to tell you I love you more than all things, and of 
showing you the sincerity of my passion at the very first! 
declaration of it" " My dear, dear Philander," says the 
lady, pulling off her mask, '' this is not the time for art ; yoa 
^ are much dearer to me than the life you have preserved, and 
the joy of my present deliverance does not transport me so 
much as the passion which occasioned it.'' Who can tell the 
grief, the astonishment, the terror, that appeared in the face 
of Philander when he saw the person he spoke to was Cla- 
rinda ! After a short pause, ^ Madam," says he, with the 
looks of a dead man, ^ we are both mistaken ;" and imme- 
diately flew away, without hearing the distressed Clarinda, 
who had just strength enough to cry out, " Cruel Philander ! 
why did you not leave me in the theatre ?" Crowds of peo- 
ple immediately gathered about her, and after having brought 

* In Denmark. Philander, Chloe, dec. sound very absurd as Dan- 
ish people, bnt this application of ancient names to modem persons 
was the taste of the age. Romeo, however, was an innovation still 
more fantastical. Steele, I suppose, in despair for some fresh name, 
had it suggested to him by the theatrical ground of this most afRect- 
ing stoiy. 


her to herself, conveyed her to the house of the good old tin- 
happy Eomeo. Philander was now pressing against a whole 
tide of people at the doors of the theatre, and striving to 
enter with more earnestness, than any there endeavored to 
get out. He did it at last, and with much difficulty forced 
his way to the box where his beloved Chloe stood, expecting 
her fate, amidst this scene of terror and distraction. She re- 
vived at the sight of Philander, who fell about her neck with 
a tenderness not to be expressed, and amidst a thousand sobs 
and sighs told her his love and his dreadful mistake. The 
stage was now in flames, and the whole house full of smoke \ 
the entrance was quite barred up with heaps of people who 
had fallen upon one another as they endeavored to get out. 
Swords were drawn, shrieks heard on all sides, and in short 
there was no possibility of an escape for Philander himself, 
had he been capable of making it without his Chloe. But 
his mind was above such a thought, and wholly emplbyed 
in weeping, condoling, and comforting. He catches her m 
his arms — ^the fire surrounds them, while .... I cannot go 
on ... . 

Were I an infidel, misfortimes like this would convince 
me that there must be an hereafter ; for who can believe that 
so much virtue could meet with so great distress without a 
following reward ? For my part, I am so old-fashioned as 
firmly to believe, that all who perish in such generous enter- 
prises are relieved from the further exercise of life; and 
Providence, which sees their virtue consummate and mani- 
fest, takes them to an immediate reward, in a being more 
suitable to the grandeur of their spirits. 



A GENTLEMAN who had courted a most agreeable 
young woman and won her heart, obtained also the con- 
sent of her father, to whom she was an only child. The old 
man had a fancy that they should be married in the same 
church where he himself was, in a village in Westmorelandi 
and made them set out while he was laid up with the gout in 
London. The bridegroom took only his man, the bride her 
maid : they had the most agreeable journey imaginable to the 
place of marriage, from whence the bridegroom writ the fol- 
lowing letter to his wife's fftther : — 

"^ March 18, 1672. 
" Sir, — ^After a very pleasant journey hither, we are pre- 
paring for the happy hour in which I am to be your son. I 
assure you that the bride carries it, in the eye of the vicar 
who married you, much beyond her mother ] though, he says, 
your open sleeves, pantaloons, and shoulder-knot, made a 
much better show than the finical dress I am in. However, 
I am contented to be the second fine man this village ever 
saw, and shall make it very merry before night, because I 
shall write myself from thence 

'' Your most dutiful son, 

« T. D. 
^ The bride gives her duty, and is as handsome as an 
angeL — I am the happiest man breathing." 

The villagers were assembling about the church, and the 
happy couple took a walk in a private garden. The bride- 
groom's man knew his master would leave the place on a 
sudden after the wedding, and seeing him draw his pistols 
the night before, took this opportunity to go into his chamber 


and charge them. Upon their return from the garden, they 
went into that room ; and after a little fond raillery on the 
subject of their courtship, the lover took up a pistol, which 
he knew he had unloaded the night before, and, presenting it 
to her, said, with the most graceful air, whilst she looked 
pleased at his agreeable flattery : " Now, madam, repent of 
all these cruelties you have been guilty of to me ; consider, 
before you die, how often you have made a poor wretch freeze 
tinder your casement ; you shall die, you tyrant, you shall 
die, with all those instruments of death and destruction 
about you, with that enchanting smile, those killing ringlets 
of your hair." " Give fire I" said she, laughing. He did so, 
and shot her dead. Who can speak his condition ? but he 
bore it so patiently as to call upon his man. The poor wretch 
entered, and his master locked the door upon him. ^ Will," 
said he, " did you charge these pistols ?" He answered " Yes." 
Upon which he shot him dead with that remaining. After 
this, amidst a thousand broken sobs, piercing groans, and 
distracted motions, he writ the following letter to the father 
of his dead mistress : — 

" Sir, — I, who two hours ago, told you truly I was the 
happiest man alive, am now the most miserable. Your 
daughter lies dead at my feet, killed by my hand, through a 
mistake of my man's charging my pistols unknown to me. 
Him have I murdered for it. Such is my wedding-day. I 
will immediately follow my wife to her grave ; but before I 
throw myself on my sword, I command my distraction so far 
as to explain my story to you. I fear my heart will not keep 
together until I have stabbed it. P^r, good old man I Re- 
member he that killed your daughter, died for it. In the 
article of death, I give you my thanks, and pray for you, 
though I dare not for myself. If it be possible, do not curse 



A YOUNG- gentleman and lady, of ancient and honorable 
houses in Cornwall, had from their childhood entertained 
for each other a generous and noble passion, which had been 
long opposed by their friends, by reason of the inequality of 
their fortunes ; but their constancy to each other, and obe- 
dience to those on whom they depended, wrought so much 
upon their relations, that these celebrated lovers were at 
length joined in marriage. Soon after their nuptials, the 
bridegroom was obliged to go into a foreign country to take 
care of a considerable fortune that had been left him by a 
relation, and came very opportunely to improve their moder- 
ate circumstances. They received the congratulations of all 
the country on the occasion ; and I remember it was a com- 
mon sentence in every one's mouth, '^ You see how faithful 
love is rewarded." 

He took this agreeable voyage, and sent home, every post, 
fresh accounts of his success in his affairs abroad ; but at last, 
though he designed to return with the next ship, he lamented, 
in his letters, that "business would detain him some time 
longer from home," because he would give himself the pleas- 
ure of an unexpected arrival. 

The young lady, after the heat of the day, walked every 
evening on the sea-shore, near which she lived, with a fa- 
miliar friend, her husband's kinswoman ; and diverted herself 
with what objects they met there, or upon discourses of the 
future methods of lifofin the happy change in their circum- 
stances. They stood one evening on the shore together in 
a perfect tranquillity, observing the setting of tfie sun, the 
calm face of the deep, and the silent heaving of the waves 
which gently rolled towards them, and broke at their feet ; 


when, at s distance, her kinswomui saw something float on 
the waters, which she fancied was a chest, and with a smile 
told her, " she saw it first, and if it came ashore full of jewels, 
she bad a right to it." They both fixed their eyes upon it, 
and entertained themselves with the subject of the wreck, 
the cousin still asserting her right ; but promising, " if it was 
a prize, to give her a very rich coral for the child of which 
she was then big, provided she might be god-mother." Their 
mirth soon abated, when they observed, upon the nearer ap- 
proach, that it was a human body. The young lady, who had 
a heart naturally filled with pity and compassion, made many 
melancholy reflections on the occasion. " Who knows," said 
she, " but this man may be the only hope and heir of a 
wealthy house, the darling of indulgent parents, who are now 
in impertinent mirth, and pleasing themselves with the 
thoughts of oflering him a bride they have got ready for 
him ? or may he not be the master of a family that wholly 
depended upon his life ? There may, for aught we know, be 
half-a-dozen fatherless children, and a tender wife, now ex- 
posed to poverty by his death. What pleasure might he have 
promised himself in the diflerent welcome he was to have 
from her and them ? But let us go away ; it is a dreadful 
sight 1 The best office we can do, is to take care that the 
poor man, whoever he ig, is decently buried." She turned 
away, when a wave threw the carcase on the shora The 
kinswoman immediately shrieked out, ^ Oh my cousin !" and 
fell upon the ground. The unhappy wife went to help her 
friend, when she saw her own husband at her feet, and dropped 
in a swoon upon the body. An old woman, who had been 
the gentleman's nurse, came out about this time to call the 
ladies in to supper, and found her child, as she always called 
him, dead on the shore, her mistress and kinswoman both 
^ying dead by him. Her loud lamentations, and calling her 


yonng master to life, soon awaked the friend from her trance ; 
but the wife was gone forever. 

When the family and neighborhood got together round 
the bodies, no one asked any questions, but the objects be- 
fore them told the story. 


BASILIUS Valentinus was a person who had arrived at 
the utmost perfection in the hermetic art, and initiated 
his son Alezandrinus in the same mysteries ; but, as they 
are not to be attained but by the painful, the pious, the 
chaste, and the pure of heart, Basilius did not open to him, 
because of his youth and the deviations too natural to it, the 
greatest secrets of which he was master, as well knowing that 
the operation would fail in the hands of a man so liable to 
errors in life as Alexandrinus. But believing, from a cer- 
tain indisposition of mind as well as body, his dissolution was 
drawing nigh, he called Alexandrinus to him, and as he lay 
on a couch over against which his son was seated, and pre- 
pared by sending out servants one after another, and admo- 
nition to examine that no one overheard them, he revealed 
the most important of his secrets with the solemnity and lan- 
guage of an adept. " My son," said he, " many have been 
the watchings, long the lucubrations, constant the labors of 
thy father, not only to gain a great and plentiful estate to his 
posterity, but also to take care that he should have no pos- 
terity. Be not amazed, my child ; I do not mean that thou 
shalt be taken from me, but that I will never leave thee, and 
consequently cannot be said to have posterity. Observe this 
small phial and this gallipot ; in this an unguent, in the other 
a liquor. In these, my child, are collected such powers as 


eliall revive the springs of life when they are yet but just 
ceased, and give new strength, new spirits, and in a word 
wholly restore all the organs and senses of the human body, 
to as great a duration as it had before enjoyed from its birth 
to the day of the application of these my medicines. But, 
my beloved son, care must be taken to apply them within ten 
hours after the breath is out of the body, while yet the clay 
is warm with its late life, and yet capable of resuscitation. 
I find my frame grown crazy with perpetual toil and medita- 
tion, and I conjure you, as soon as I am dead, to anoint me 
with this unguent ; and when you see me begin to move, pour 
into my lips this inestimable liquor, else the force of the oint- 
ment will be ineffectual. By this means you will give me 
life, as I have you, and we will from that hour mutually lay 
aside the authority of having bestowed life on each other, but 
live as brethren, and prepare new medicines against such an- 
other ^period of time as will demand another application of 
the same restoratives." In a few days after these wonderful 
ingredients were delivered to Alexandrinus, Basilius departed 
this life ; but such was the pious sorrow of the son at the 
loss of so excellent a father, and the ^rst transports of grief 
had so disabled him from all manner of business, that he 
never thought of the medicines till the time to which his 
father had limited their efficacy was expired. To tell the 
truth, Alexandrinus was a man of wit and pleasure, and con- 
sidered his father had lived out his natural time— his life was 
long and uniform — suitable to the regularity of it — ^but that 
he himself, poor sinner, wanted a new life, to repent of a 
very bad one hitherto ; and in the examination of his heart 
resolved to go on as he did with this natural being of his, 
but repent very faithfully, and spend very piously, the life to 
which he should be reduced by application of these rarities, 
when time shojild come, to his own person. 


It has been observed, that Providence frequently pun- 
ishes the self-love of men who would do immoderately for 
their offspring, with children very much below their charac- 
ters and qualifications; insomuch that they only transmit 
their names to be borne by those who give daily proofs of 
the vanity of the labor and ambition of their progenitors. 

It happened thus in the family of Basilius ; for Alexan- 
drinus began to enjoy his ample fortune in all the extremi- 
ties of household expenses, furniture, and insolent equipage ; 
and this he pursued, till the departure began, as he grew sen- 
sible, to approach. As Basilius was punished with a son 
very unlike him, Alexandrinus, besides that jealousy, had 
proofs of the vicious disposition of his son Kenatus, for that 
was his name. 

Alexandrinus, as I observed, having very good reasons 
fbr thinking it unsafe to trust the real secret of his phialr and 
gallipot to any man living, projected to make sure work, and 
hope for his success depending from the avarice, not the 
bounty, of his benefactor. 

With this thought he called Kenatus to his bedside, and 
bespoke him in the most pathetic gesture and accent. ^ As 
much, my son, as you have been addicted to vanity and pleas- 
ure, as I also have been before you, you nor I could escape 
the fame or the good effects of the profound knowledge of 
our progenitor, the renowned Basilius. His symbol is very 
well known in the philosophic world, and I shall never forget 
the venerable air of his countenance when he let me into the 
profound mysteries of the table of Hermes. ^ It is true,* 
said he, * and far removed from all color of deceit, that which 
is inferior is like that which is superior, by which are ac- 
quired and perfected all the miracles of a certain work ; the 
&ther is the sun, the mother is the moon, the wind is the 
womb, the earth is the nurse of it, and the mother of all per- 


fection.' All this mast be- received with modesty and wis- 
dom. The chemical people carry in all their jargon a whim- 
sical sort of piety which is ordinary with great lovers of 
money^, and is no more but deceiving themselves, that their 
regularity and strictness of manners, for the ends of the 
world, has some affinity to the innocence of heart which must 
recommend th«m to the next." Kenatus wondered to hear 
his father talk so like an adept, and with such a mixture of 
piety, while Alexandrinus observing his attention fixed, pro- 
ceeded. '^ This phial, child, and this little earthen pot, will 
add to thy estate so much as to make thee the richest man in 
the German empu-a I am going to my long home, but shall 
not return to common dust." Then he resumed a countenance 
of alacrity, and told him that if within an hour after his 
death he anointed his whole body, and poured down his 
throat that liquor which he had from old Basilius, the corpse 
would be converted into pure gold. I will not attempt to 
express to you the unfeigned tenderness that passed between 
these two extraordinary persons ; but if the father recom- 
mended the care of his remains with vehemence and affection, 
the son Was not behindhand in professing that he would not 
cut off the least bit of him but upon the utmost extremity, or 
to provide for his younger brothers and sisters. 

Well, Alexandrinus died, and the heir of his body, us 
our term is, could noit forbear in the wantonness of his 
heart to measure the length and breadth of his beloved 
father, and cast up the ensuing value of him before he pro- 
ceeded to operation. When he knew the immense reward 
of his pains, he began the work : but lo ! when he had 
anointed the corpse all over, and began to apply the liquor, 
the body stirred, and Kenatus, in a fright, broke the phial. 



MR. EUSTACE, a young gentleman of good estate near 
Dublin, in Ireland, married a lady of youth, beauty, 
and modesty, and lived with her, in general, with much ease 
and tranquillity ; but. was in his secret temper impatient of 
rebuke. She was apt to fall into little sallies of passion ; 
yet as suddenly recalled by her own reflection on her fault, 
and the consideration of her husband's temper. It happened, 
as he, his wife, and her sister, were at supper together about 
two months ago, that in the midst of a careless and familiar 
conversation the sisters fell into a little warmth and contra- 
diction. He, who was one of that sort of men who are never 
unconcerned at what passes before them, fell into an out- 
rageous passion on the side of the sister. The person about 
whom they disputed was so near, that they were under no 
restraint from running into vain repetitions of past heats ; on 
which occasion all the aggravations of anger and distaste 
boiled up, and were repeated with the bitterness of exasper- 
ated lovers. The wife, observing her husband extremely 
moved, began to turn it off, and rally him for interposing be- 
tween two people, who from their infancy had been angry and 
pleased with each other every half-hour. But it descended 
deeper into his thoughts, and they broke up with a sullen 
silence. The wife immediately retired to her chamber, 
whither her husband soon after followed. When they were 
in bed he soon dissembled a sleep ; and she, pleased that his 
thoughts were composed, fell into a real one. Their apart- 
ment was very distant from the re^t of their family in a lone- 
ly country house. He now saw his opportunity, and with a 
dagger he had brought to bed with him, stabbed his wife in 
the side. She awaked in the highest terror ; but immediately 



imagining it was a blow designed for her husband by ruffians, 
began to grasp him, and strove to awake and rouse him to 
defend himself ^e still pretended himself sleeping, and 
gave her a second wound. 

She now drew open the curtain, and, by the help of moon- 
light, saw his hand lifted up to stab her. The horror dis- 
armed her from further struggling ; and he, enraged anew at 
being discovered, fixed his poniard in lier bosom. As soon 
as he believed he had despatched her, he attempted to escape 
out of the window ; but she, still alive, called to him not to 
hurt himself, for she might live. He was so stung with thn 
insupportable reflection upon her goodness, and his own vil- 
lanj, that he jumped to the bed, and wounded her all over 
with as much rage as if every blow was provoked by new 
aggravations. In this fury of mind he fled away. His wife 
had still strength to go to her sister's apartment, and give an 
account of this wonderful tragedy ; but died the next day. 
Some weeks after, an officer of justice, in attempting to seize 
the criminal, fired upon him, as did the criminal upon the 
officer. Both their balls took place, and both immediately 


MR. THOMAS INKLE, of London, aged twenty years, 
embarked in the Downs on the good ship called the 
Achilles, bound for the West Indies, on the 16th of June, 
1674, in order to improve his fortune by trade and merchan- 
dise. Our adventurer was the third son of an eminent citizen, 
who had taken particular care to instil into his mind an early 
love of gain by making him a perfect master of numbers, and 
consequently giving him a quick view of loss and advantage, 
find preventing the natural impulse of his passions^ by pre- 


possession towards his interests. With a mind thus turned, 
young Inkle had a person eyery way agreeable, a ruddy 
vigor in his countenance, strength in his limbs, with ringlets 
of fair hair loosely flowing on his shoulders. It happened, in 
the course of the voyage, that the Achilles in some distress 
put into a creek on the main of America, in search of proviso 
ions. The youth, who is the hero of my story, among others, 
went ashore on this occasion. From their first landing they 
were observed by a party of Indians, who hid themselves in the 
woods for that purpose. The English unadvisedly marched a 
great distance from the shore into the country, and were inter- 
cepted by the natives, who slew the greatest number of them. 
Our adventurer escaped among others by flying into a forest. 
Upon his coming into a remote and pathless part of the wood, 
he threw himself, tired and breathless, on a little hillock, 
when an Indian maid rushed from a thicket behind him. 
After the first surprise, they appeared mutually agreeable to 
each other. If the European was highly oharmed with the 
limbs, features, and wild graces of the naked A.merican, the 
American was no less taken with the dress, complexion, and 
shape of an European, covered from head to foot. The In- 
dian grew immediately enamored of him, and consequently 
desirous for his preservation. She th^efi>re conveyed hi^ 
to a cave, where she gave him a delicious repast of fruits, and 
led him to a stream to slake his thirst. In the midst of these 
good offices, she would sometimes play with his hair, and de- 
light in the opposition of its color to that of her fingers. 
Then open his bosom, thai laugh at him for covering it. She 
was, it seems, a person of distinction, for she every day came 
to him in a different dress, of the most beautiful bugles, 
shells, and bredes. She likewise brought him a great many 
spoils, which her other lovers had presented to h^, so that 
his cave was richly adorned with all the spotted skins qf 


b^9te, And most &ncy-oolOred featbeihs of fbwls, wbich that 
world afforded. To snake bis ooofinemeiit more tolerably 
sbe would carry bim in the dusk of the evening, or bj tbe 
favor of moonlight, to unfrequented groves and solitudes, and 
show him where to lie dolvtl ib slifety, and sleep amidst the 
falls of waters, and melody of nightingales. Her part was to 
watch «Bd bold bim awake in her arms, for fear of her coun- 
trymen, and aWake bim on occasion to consult bis safety. In 
this matnner did tbe lovers pass away their time, till they 
had learned a language of their own, in which the voyaged 
Gommmiieated to his mistress how happy he should be to have 
her in his country, where she should be clothed in such silkd 
as his waistcoat was made of, and be carried in houses drawn 
by horses Without being exposed to wind or weather. All 
this he promised her the enjoyment of, without such fears and 
alarms as they were tormented with. In this tender corres- 
pondence these lovers lived for many months, when Tarico, 
instructed by her lover^ discovered a vessel on the coast, to 
which she made signal ; and in the night with the utmost joy 
and flatiitfaetion accompanied him to a ship's crew of bis 
countrymen bound for Barbadoes. When a vessel from the main 
arrives in that island, it seems the planters come down to tha 
shore, where there is an immediate market of the Indians and 
other slaves, as with us of horses and oxen.' 

To be short, Mr. Thomas Inkle, now coming into English 
teititories, began seriously to reflect tipon his loss of time, 
and .to weigh with himself how many days' interest of bis 
money he had lost during hi« stay with Yarico. This thought 
made the young man very pensive, and careful what account 
he should be able to give his friends of his voyage. Upon 
which consideration, the prudent and frugal young man sold 
Tarieo to a Barbadian merchant, notwithstanding that tbe 
poor girl, to iiiclmt him to oolnmiaerate her eonditioD^ told 



him she was with child by him ; bat he only made use of thd 
infonnation to rise in his demands upon the purchaser. 


A FINE town-lady was married to a country gentleman of 
ancient descent in one of the counties of Great Britain, 
who had good-humor to a weakness, and was that sort of per- 
son, of whom it is said, he is no man's enemy but his own ; 
one, who had too much tenderness of soul to have any au- 
thority with his wife ; and she too little sense to give him 
any authority, for that reason. His kind wife obseryed this 
temper in him, and made proper use of it. But knowing it 
was beneath a gentlewoman to wrangle, she resolyed upon an 
expedient to save decorum, and wean her dear to her point 
at the same time. She therefore took upon her to govern 
him, by falling into fits whenever she was repulsed in a re- 
quest, or contradicted in a discourse. It was a fish-day, 
when, in the midst of her husband's good-humor at table, she 
bethought herself to try her project. She made signs that 
she had swallowed a bone. The man grew pale as ashes, and 
ran to her assistance, calling for drink. " No, my dear," said 
she, recovering, " it is down, do not be frightened." This 
accident betrayed his fondness enough. The next day she 
complained, a lady's chariot, whose husband had not half his 
estate, had a crane-neck, and hung with twice the air that 
hers did. He answered, ^^ Madam, you know my income: 
you know I have lost two coach-horses this spring,"— down 
she fell. " Hartshorn ! Betty, Susan, Alice, throw water in 
her face." With much care and pains, she was at last brought 
to herself, and the vehicle in which she visited was amended 
in the nicest manner to prevent relapses ; but they frequently 


happened during that husband's whole life, which he had the 
good fortune to end in a few years after. The disconsolate 
widow soon pitched upon a very agreeable successor, whom 
she very prudently designed to govern by the same method. 
This man knew her little arts, and resolved to break through 
all tenderness, and be absolute master as soon as occasion 
offered. ^ One day it happened that a discourse arose about 
furniture ; he was very glad of the occasion, and fell into an 
invective against china, protesting, that he " would never let 
five pounds more of his money be laid out that way as long 
as he breathed." She immediately fainted. He starts up as 
amazed, and calls for help. The maids run to the closet. He 
chafes her face, bends her forward, and beats the palms of 
her hands ; her convulsions increase ; and down she stumbles 
on the floor, where she lies quite dead, in spite of what the 
whole family, from the nursery to the kitchen, could do for 
her relief 

While every servant was there helping or lamenting their 
mistress, he, fixing his cheek to hers, seemed to be following 
in a trance of sorrow ; but secretly whispers her, " My dear, 
this will never do : what is within my power and fortune you 
may always command ; but none of your artifices ; you are 
quite in other hands than those you passed these pretty pas- 
sions upon." This made her almost in the condition she 
pretended ; her convulsions now came thicker, nor was she 
to be held down. The kind man doubles his care, helps the 
servants to throw water in her face by full quarts ; and when 
the sinking part of the fit came again, ^' Well, my dear," said 
he, " I applaud your actions ; but I must take my leave of 
you till you are more sincere with me ; farewell forever ; you 
shall always know where to hear of me, and want for noth- 
ing." With that he ordered her ftiaids to keep plying her 
with hartshorn, while he went for a physician \ he was scarce 


at the stair-head when she followed, and pulling him into a 
closet, thanked him for her core ; whioh was so absolute, 
that she gaye me this relation herself, to be communicated 
for the benefit of all the yoluntary invalids of her sex. 

TsE primary signiflcftfion of th(^ word C^iib, in its tense of ft meet- 
ings of companioDs, appeara to bo derived fh)m the same root as that 
of the massy stick, and means a consolidated body of persons lalgi* 
miongh to amount to something BabstaotiBl ; Mmething Biore tbao 
accidental and of no accoimt. 

A dnb i^pears ^formerly to have iseast any such body organhsod 
for a common object. It may now be defined to be a set of perscMiB 
associated for companionable eqjoyment^ at stated times and with a 
division of expenses. 

Glnbs of this kind ate thonght to be of very modem origin* We 
snspect they are as old as flourishing commimities. Traces of them 
are dieoemible in the IHwatnre of Oreeoe and Rome, and the East, 
especially hi bacchanalian poetry. Indeed it would be strange if snch 
had not been the case, considering in how many respects men are alike 
in all ages, and that where good cheer is to be fonnd, they naturally 
flock together. We are not awaro, however, of taxy ascertained in* 
stance of a dnb, earlier than the flimoin cue at the Devil Tavem, for 
which Ben Jcmson wrote his Latin mles ; and perhaps the name, in 
the modem sense, is hardly appropriate even to this. It is not certain 
that the mles applied to an organiaed body of ooiMbutora to the 
expense, in contradistinction to a permitted range of payers. Clubs 
thickened in the time of the Commonwealth, and exhibited their xok^ 
doubted modem character in that of Steele and Addison. The meet- 
ing of wits in Dryden's time appears to have taken place in the opeia 
oedfee^room. K is in iha dttba of tfia 7MgrsBiditiw rfa<tf r,thatw». 


flret meet with all the characteristics of the modern club — its closed 
doors, reg^ular members, and " creature comforts." 

^ Supper and friendfl expect me at the Rose." 

Addison, whose home was not happy, and whose blood required a 
stimulus to set his wit flowing, found his greatest enjoyment in the 
tavern-room ; Steele was bom for one ; and except wit, ladies, gal- 
lants, and good morals, there is nothing you hear more of in their 
periodicals, than clubs. The circumstances which brought people to- 
gether in this kind of society, were often of so fantastic a nature, that 
it is not easy to distinguish the real from the imaginary sort in the 
pages of these writers ; but some of the names are historical There 
is, in the first place, the Spectator's own club, with immortal Sir 
Roger de Coverley, and Will Honeycomb. Then come the Fat Club, 
the Thin Club, the Club of Kings (that is to say, of people of the name 
of King) ; the St. George's Club, who swore " Before (Jeorge" (which 
would seem to be Jacobitical, if they had^ not met on St. George's 
day) ; Street Olubs (composed of members residing in the same 
street) *, the Hum-Drum and Mum Clubs (who ingeniously smoked 
and held their tongues) ; the Duellists (famous for being killed and 
" hung") ; the Kit-Cat (the great Whig Club, whose name originated 
in tarts made by Christopher Katt) ; the Beef-Steak (founded by'Est- 
court the comedian) ; the October (a club of Tory country-gentlemen 
ftnd beer-drinkers) ; the Ugly Club ; the Sighing or Amorous Club ; 
the Fringe-Glove Club (a set of fops) ; the Hebdomadal (a set of quid- 
nuncs) ; the Everlasting (some of whom were always sitting) ; the 
Club of She-Romps, who once a month " demolished a prude" (this 
looks like a foundation of Steele's acquaintance, Lady Mary Wortley 
Montague) ; the Mohochs, who demolished windows and watchmen, 
and ran their swords through sedan-chairs (really) j the Little or Short 
Club (an invention of Pope's) ; the Tall (an invention of Addison's) ; 
the Terrible (Steele's) ; the Silent, who had loud wives, and whose 
motto was, "Talking spoils company" (an invention of Zachary 
Pearce's, bishop of Rochester) ; and last not least, the Club at the 
Trumpet, in Shire Lane, of which more anon. These, we believe, are 
all the Clubs mentioned in the TaUer^ Spectator^ and Chiardian. 
Brookes's, and (we think) White's, which are still places of meeting 
£or the wits, politiciaiis, and gamblers of high 11^9, arose before the 


dissolution of some of them. Then there is the second Beef-Steak 
Club (founded by Rich the harlequin) ; the famous Literary Club 
(originating with Dr. Johnson) ; the Club of Monks at Medmenham 
Abbey (a profligate mistake) ; the King of Clubs (Bobus Smith's, 
*' himself a club," brother of Sydney) ; and the high quality club en- 
titled NvUi Secundus, or Second to None (which a metaphysical wag 
might translate, Worse than Nothing). Endless would be the enu- 
meration, eyen if they could be discovered, of the Freemason and 
other clubs, which have attained a minor celebrity, and imitations of 
which branch off through all the gradations of tavern and public- 
house, and are to be found all over the kingdom, — such as Odd Fel- 
lows, Merry Fellows, Eccentrics, Free and Easys, Lords and Com- 
mons, &c. &c., illustrious at Cheshire Cheeses, and Holes in the Wall ; 
and often better than best for comfort We must not forget one, how- 
ever, of which we have read somewhere, called the Livers, which had 
bottles shaped like inverted cones, so that the wine would ** stand*' 
with nobody, but was forced to be always in circulation. The reader 
will not be surprised to hear, that these " Livers" were famous for 
dying before their time. 

Johnson said, that a tavern chair was the " throne of human felici- 
ty." That to him it was, we have no doubt ; and with admirable wit 
and sense he filled it. Yet the word <* throne" betrays a defect in the 
right club notion. His felicity consisted in laying down the law, and 
having the best of the argument. There was too much in it of his 
illustrious namesake the poet. We suspect, however, that although 
Johnson was greatest among his great friends, he was pleasantest 
among his least. He had to make the most of them in his turn, and 
to set them a good example. He has the merit of having invented 
the word " clubable." Bos well, said he, is a " clubable man." He 
meant intelligent, social, and good tempered. These are the three 
great requisites for a clubbist ; and it is better to miss the intelli- 
gence than the sociality, and the sociality than the good temper. The 
great end of a club is the refVeshment to the spirits, after the cares of 
business or of home, whether those cares be of a bad or a good sort ; 
and though intellect may be everything with some, and sociality with 
others, better is the merest puff of a tobacco-pipe with peace, than 
Johnson himself or Burke without it. We are for the Hum-Drums 
in preference to the Duellists ; for a little noise with good fellowship 
to the Hum-Drums ; for good fellowship and wit without the noise to 


anything. Bnt if we cannot hare all we desire in those respects, gire 
US a few chatty, cordial people, neither geniuses nor fools, with whom 
the news of the day and questions of personal interest can be ex- 
changed, with the certainty that there will at least be peace and har- 
mony, if little wit Intellect and wft enoogh can be got from books ; 
perhaps too mnch of them may haye been met with in l^e coorse of 
the day. Bnt a dnb is the next thing before a pillow ; and if it is to 
refresh yon after the day's employment, it i^oold do it in a manner 
that at all events dismisses yon tranquilly to your repose for the night 
We suspect^ upon the whole, that the Street and Village Clubs have 
been most successful ; meetings established by the natural cxmrse of 
things, and expecting nothing but a comparison of daily noteto and a 
little cheerful refireshment. As to great Reform and Conservative 
Clubs, Athenteums, dbc», they may be good for public objects, but 
publicity has nothhig to do with the comfbrt suitable to the club 
proper; and those institutions in ihct, club-wards, are but escapes 
fh)m domesticity bito cheapness and solitude. A man may be a great 
frequenter of them, and dub with nothii^ bnt callen on business and 
a lonely dinner-table. The club to belong to, of all others, would be 
one composed of good-natured men of genius, stch as Steele, Fielding, 
and Thomson, who had reflection enough fbr aU subjects, enthusiasm 
enough to give them animation, good breeding enough to hinder the 
animation fh>m becoming noisy, and humanity enough to make allow- 
ance for honest occasional departures fh>m any rule whatever. Shak- 
speare would include such men in his all-comprehensive person ; but 
we are not sure that he would not over-inform the club with intellect ; 
set it too abundantly thinking ; and besides, it is difficult, as modem 
clubbists, to take to the idea of a man of a distant period, with a dif- 
ferent style of language, and r^rospective meats and drinks. Other- 
wise Chaucer would surely be a perfect member ; and who would not 
rejoice in the company of Suckling and Marvell 1 

We have selected the fbllowing dubs firOm th^e Writings Of Steele 
and Goldsmith, as exemplifying the three main varieties ; the well- 
bred, humorsome, but intellectual club (for though Sir Roger de Cov- 
erley and Will Honeycomb make the principal figures in the account 
of it, it is to be recollected that the Spectator is there) ; the Trumpet 
Club in Shire Lane, frequented by the Tatler, which is the ordinary 
common-place club of smokers and old story-tellers, by way of opiate, 
bedwards ; and the clubs of low life, which Goldsmith, as a cosmopo- 


lite, delighted to paint, and which had probably often seen him as a 
visitor, without suspecting that the simple-looking Irishman was a 
genius come to immortalize it. Steele's delineations are exquisite ; 
but Goldsmith's are no less so. . 



THE first of OTir society is a gentleman of Worcestershire, 
of ancient descent, a baronet, his name Sir Roger de Coy- 
erley. His great-grandfather was inventor of that famous 
conntrj-dance which is called after him. All who know that 
shire are very well acquainted with tlie parts and merits of 
Sir Roger. He is a gentleman that is very singular in his 
behavior, but his singularities proceed from his good sense, 
and are contradictions to the manners of the world, only as 
he thinks the world is in the wrong. However, this humor 
creates him no enemies, for he does nothing with sourness or 
obstinacy ; and his being unconfined to modes and forms 
makes him but the readier and more capable to please and 
oblige all who know him. When he is in town he lives in 
Soho Square. It is said he keeps himself a bachelor by rea- 
son he was crossed in love by a perverse beautiful widow of 
the next county to him. Before this disappointment Sir 
Roger was what you call a fine gentleman, had often supped 
with my Lord Rochester and Sir George Etherege, fought a 
duel upon his first coming to town, and kicked Bully Dawson 
in a public coffee-house for calling him youngster, f But be- 

* No. 2. 

f This has been thought Inconsistent with Sir Roger's character 
for simplicity ; but it is not so. It only shows that simplicity is com- 
patible with the imitation of anything hi vogue during the outset of 
life. Collins, the poet, whose subsequent appearance Johnson 4e- 


ing ill-used by the above-mentioned widow, he was very se- 
rious for a year and a half ; and though, his temper being 
naturally jovial, he at last got over it, he grew careless of 
himself, and never dressed afterwards. He continues to 
wear a coat and doublet of the same cut that were in fashion 
at the time of his repulse, which, in his merry humors, he 
tells us has been in and out twelve times since he first wore 
it. ^Tis said Sir Roger grew humble in his desires after he 
had forgot this cruel beauty, insomuch that it is reported he 
has frequently offended in point of chastity with beggars and 
gipsies ; but this is looked upon by his friends rather as a 
matter of raillery than truth. He is now in his fifty-sixth 
year, cheerful, gay, and hearty ; keeps a good house both in 
town and country ; a great lover of mankind ; but there is 
such a mirthful cast in his behavior, that he is rather beloved 
than esteemed. His tenants grow rich ; his servants look 
satisfied ; all the young women profess love to him, and the 
young men are glad of his company. When he comes into a 
house he calls the servants by their names, and talks all the 
way up stairs to a visit. I must not omit, that Sir Roger is 
Justice of the Quorum ; that he fills the chair at a Quarter 
Session with great ability ; and three months ago gained 
universal applause by explaining a passage in the Game Act. 
The gentleman next in esteem and authority among us is 
another bachelor, who is a member of the Inner Temple ; a 
man of great probity, wit, and understanding ; but he has 
chosen his plaoe of residence rather to obey the direction of 

scribes as " decent and manly," astonished his friends by the foppish- 
ness of his dress on his first coming to town ; and Charles Fox, the 
simplest of men, was at one time a beau of the first fashion. At least 
he undertook to appear such. We suspect that the fopperies of Sir 
Boger, and of the poet, and the statesman, might all have been seen 
through by discerning eyes. 


an old humorsome father, than in pursuit of his own inclina- 
tions. He was placed there to study the laws of the land, 
and is the most learned of any of the house in those of the 
stage. Aristotle and Longinus are much better understood 
by him than Littleton or Coke. The father sends up, every 
post, questions relating to marriage-articles, leases, and ten- 
ures, in the neighborhood ; all which questions he agrees 
with an attorney to answer in the lump. He ia studying the 
passions themselves, when he should be inquiring into the de- 
bates among men which arise from them. He knows the 
argument of each of the Orations of Demosthenes and Tully, 
but not one case in the reports of our own courts. No one 
ever took him for a fool ; but none, except his most intimate 
friends, know he has a great deal of wit. This turn makes 
him at once both disinterested and agreeable. As few of his 
thoughts are drawn from business, they are most of them fit 
for publication. His taste for books is a little too just for the 
age lives in. He has read all, but approves of very few. His 
familiarity with the customs, manners, actions, and writings 
of the ancients, makes him a very delicate observer of what 
occurs to him in the present world. He is an excellent 
critic ; and the time of the play is his hour of business.. 
Exactly at five he passes through New Inn, crosses through 
Russell Court, and takes a turn at Will's* till the play be- 
gins. He has his shoes rubbed and his periwig powdered at 
the barber's, as you go in to the Eoscf It is for the good of 
the audience when he is at a play, for the actors have an am- 
bition to please him. 

* A coffee-house in Russell Street, Covent Qarden, frequented by 
the wits. It occupied the south-west comer of Bow Street j and was 
the house that Dryden had frequented. 

t The tavern mentioned in the pleasant story of the " Medicine" in 
the first volume of the Tatler, No. 2. We know not where it stood ; 
probably in Bose Street, in the above neighborhood. 


Ttio person of next consideration is Sir Andrew Freeport, 
a merchant of great eminence in tlie city of London ; a per- 
son of indefatigable industry, strong reason, and great ex- 
perienoa His notions of trade are noble and generous, and 
(as every rich man has some sly way of jesting, which Would 
make no great figure were he not a rich man) he calls the sea 
the British Ooffimon. He is acquainted with commerce in 
all its parte, and will tell you that it is a stupid and barbar- 
ous way to extend dominion by arms ; for true power is to 
be got by arts and indtu8U*y. He will often argue, that if 
this part of our trade w^e Well cultivated, we should gain 
from one nation ; and if another, from another. I have 
heard him prove that diligence makes more lasting acquisi- 
tions than valor; and that sloth hais ruined more nations 
than the JSword. He abounds in sevetal frugal maxims, 
amongst wHoh the greatei^t favorite is '^ A penny saved is a 
penny got." A general trader of good sense is pleasanter 
company than a general soholaf ; and Sir Andrew having a 
natural unaffected eloquence, the perspicuity of his discourse 
gives the same pleasure that wit would in anothet man. He 
has made hds fortune himself, and says that England may be 
richer than other kingdoms, by as plain methods as he him- 
self is richer than other men ; though, at the same time, I can 
eay this of him, that thete is not a point in the compass but 
blows home a ship in which he is an owner. 

Next to Sir Andrew '^ree^ti in the club-room sits Cap- 
tain Sentry, a gentleman of great courage, good understand- 
ing, but of invincible modesty. He is one of those that de- 
serve very well, but are very awkward at putting their talents 
within the observation of such as should take notice of them. 
He was some years a captain, and behaved with great gallan- 
try in several engagements, and at several sieges ; but, having 
a small estate of his own, and being next heir to Sir Eoger, 


he lias quitted a way of life in wliich na man can rise suitably 
tQ his merit who i$ wot something of a courtier as well as a 
soldier. I have heard him often lament, that in a profession 
where merit is placed in so conspicuous a view, impudence 
should get the better of modesty. When he has talked to 
this purposia, 1 never h<eard him n^ke a sour expression, but 
frfmkly confess that he left the world, because he was not fit 
for it, A. strict houjeoty^ and an even regular behavior, are 
in UiiOinselFes obsts^es to him that must press through crowds, 
who Qn4eaTQr at th« same end with himself-^the favor of a 
comixoande;ir. He will^ boiwevei!, in hi& way of talkj ejoeuse 
geui^als for w% dispos^ lu^cordiDg to men's desert, or in^ 
quiring into, it ; for^,^ says he, that ^eat man who has a mind 
to help me^ h^s as many to break through to come at me,'aa 
I have to comie at hiim>. Therefore he will oondude that the. 
man who would make a figure, especially in a miliitary way^ 
must get over all false modesty, and assist his patron againsti 
the importunity of other pretMiders, by a proper aasuranoe in 
his own vindication. He says it is a civil cowardice to be' 
backward in affecting what you ought to expect, as it^ is a 
military fear to be slow in attacking when it is your duty. 
With Uds candor does the gentlemen speak of himself and 
others. The same frankness runs through all his conversa? 
tion. The military part of his life has furnished him with 
many adventures, in the relation, of which he is yqxj agreer 
able to the company ; for he is never overbearing, thou^ 
accustomed to command men in the utmost degreebelow him ; 
nor ever too obsequious, from an habit of obeying men highly 
above him. 

But that our society notay not appear a set of humorists^ 
unacquainted with the gallantries and pleasures of the age, 
we have among us the gallant Will Honeycomb, a gentleman 
who, according to bis yeftus, should be^itbe. de^Jii^e of his 


life, but haviDg ever been very careful of his person, and al- 
ways had a very easy fortune. Time has made but a very little 
impression upon him, either by wrinkles on his forehead or 
traces on his brain. His person is well turned, and of a good 
height He is very ready at that sort of discourse with which 
men usually entertain women. He has all his life dressed 
very well, and remembers habits as others do men. He can 
smile when one speaks to him, and laughs easily. He knows 
the history of every mode, and can inform you from which 
of the French king^s wenches our wives and daughters had 
this manner of curling their hair, or that way of placing their 
hoods ; whose frailty was covered with such a sort of petti- 
coat, and whose vanity to show her foot made that part of 
the dress so short in such a year. In a word, all his conver- 
sation and knowledge have been in the female world. As 
other men of his age will take notice to you what such a 
minister said upon such and such an occasion, he will tell you, 
when the Duke of Monmouth danced at court, such a woman 
was then smitten ; another was taken with him at the head 
of his troop in the park. In all these important relations, he 
has ever about the same time received a kind glance or blow 
of the fan from some celebrated beauty, mother of the present 
Lord Such-a-one. . . . 

I cannot tell whether I am to account him whom I am 
next to speak of as one of our company, for he visits us but 
seldom ; but when he does, he adds to every man else a new 
enjoyment of himself He is a clergyman, a very philosophic 
man, of general learning, great sanctity of life, and the most 
exact good breeding. He has the misfortune to be of a very 
weak constitution, and consequently cannot accept of such 
cares and such business as preferments in his function would 
oblige him to. He is therefore among divines what a cham- 
ber counsellor is among lawyers. The probity of his mind, 


and the integrity of his life, create him followers ; as being 
eloquent or loud advances others. He seldom introduces the 
subject he speaks upon ; but we are so far gone in years, that 
he observes, when he is among us, an earnestness to have him 
fall on some divine topic, which he always treats with much 
authority, as one who has no interest in this world ; as one 
who is hastening to the object of all his wishes, and conceives 
hope from his decays and infirmities. These are my ordi- 
nary companions. 



**> Habeo senectuti magnam gratiam, qua mihi sermonis ayiditatem anxit, po- 
Uoni9 et cibi sustulit." Tull. db Bin. 

*' I am much beholden to old age, which has increased my eagerness for conver- 
sation, in proportion as it has lessened my appetite of hunger and thirst." 

AFTEK having applied my mind with more than ordinary 
attention to my studies, it is my usual custom to relax 
and unbend it in the conversation of such as are rather easy 
than shining companions. This I find particularly necessary 
for me before I retire to rest, in order to draw my slumbers 
upon me by degrees, and fall asleep insensibly. This is the 
particular use I make of a set of heavy honest men, with 
whom I have passed many hours with much indolence, though 
not with great pleasure. Their conversation is a kind of pre- 
parative for sleep. It takes the mind down from its abstrac- 
tions, leads it into the familiar traces of thought, and lulls it 
into that state of tranquillity which is the condition of a 
thinking man when he is but half awake. After this my 
reader will not be surprised to hear the account which I am 
about to give of a club of my own contemporaries, among 

♦No. 182. 


whom I pass two or three hours every evening. This I look 
upon as taking my first nap before I go to bed. The truth 
of it is, I should think myself unjust to posterity, as well as 
to the society at the Trumpet,* of which I am a member, did 
not I in some part of my writings give an account of the per- 
sons among whom I have passed almost a sixth part of my 
time for these last forty years. Our club consisted originally 
of fifteen ; but, partly by the severity of the law in arbitrary 
times, and partly by the natural effects of old age, we are at 
present reduced to a third part of that number ; in which, 
however, we have this consolation, that the best company is 
said to consist of five persons. I must confess, besides the 
afore-mentioned benefit which I meet with in the conversa- 
tion of this select society, I am not the less pleased with 
the company in which I find myself the greatest wit among 
them, and am heard as their oracle in all points of learning 
and diflSculty. 

Sir Jeoffiry Notch, who is the oldest of the club, has been 
in possession of the right-hand chair time out of mind, and 
is the only man among us that has the liberty of stirring the 
fire. This, our foreman, is a gentleman of an ancient family 
that came to a great estate some years before he had discre- 
tion, and run it out in hounds, horses, and cock-fighting ; for 
which reason he looks upon himself as an honest worthy 
gentleman, who has had misfortunes in the world, and calls 
every thriving man an upstart. 

* The Trumpet was a public-house in the lane in which Steele, as 
the Tatler or Mr. Bickerstaff, pretended to live. This lane was no 
greater locality than Shire Lane, lately so called, close to Temple 
Bar, now Great Shire Lane ; and the Trumpet is still extant as a pub- 
lic-house, called the Duke of York. Here, in the drawing-room (for 
the dignity's sake), we may fancy Major Matchlock and old Dick 
Reptile doling forth theu* respective insipidities. 


Major Matchlock is the next senior, who served in the 
last civil wars, and has all the battles by heart. He does 
not think any action in Europe worth talking of since the 
fight of Marston Moor ;* and every night tells us of his 
having been knocked off his horse at the rising of the 
London apprentices ;t for which he is in great esteem 
amongst us. 

Honest old Dick Beptile is the third of our society. He 
is a good-natured indolent man, who speaks little himself 
but laughs at our jokes ; and brings his young nephew along 
with him, a youth of eighteen years old, to show him good 
company, and give him a taste of the world. This young 
fellow sits generally silent, but whenever he opens his mouth, 
or laughs at anything that passes, he is constantly told by 
his uncle, after a jocular manner, " Ay, ay, Jack, you young 
men think us fools; but we old men know you are." 

The greatest wit of our company, next to myself, is a 
Bencher of the neighboring Inn, who in his youth frequented 
the ordinaries about Charing Cross, and pretends to have 
been intimate with Jack Ogle4 He has about ten distichs 
of Hudibras without book, and never leaves the club until 
he has applied them all. If any modem wit be mentioned, 
or any town frolic spoken of, he shakes his head at the dul- 
ness of the present age, and tells us a story of Jack Ogle. 

For my part, I am esteemed among them because they 

♦ In 1644, where Oromwell's cavalry turned the day against 
Charles I. 

t Probably in 1647, when they forced their way into the House 
of Commons with a petition signed by ten thousand citizens. Bat as 
the date of the club is 1709, the Major must have been a veiy old 
gentleman indeed, if his memory served him rightly. 

^ Jack Ogle was a wild fellow about town, whose sister is said to 

have been one of the mistresses of the Duke of York (James II.) 



066 I am something respected by others ; though at the same 
time I understand by their behavior that I am considered 
by them as a man of a great deal of learning, but no knowl- 
edge of the world ; insomuch that the Major sometimes, in 
the height of his military pride, calls me the philosopher ; 
and Sir Jeoffiry, no longer ago than last night, upon a dispute 
what day of the jnonth it was then in Holland, pulled his 
pipe out of his mouth, and cried, ^ What does the scholar say 
to it?" 

Our club meets precisely at six o*clock in the evening ; 
but I did not come last night until half an hour after seven, 
by which means I escaped the battle of Naseby, which ihe 
Hajor usually begins at about three quarters after six. I 
found also that my good friend the Bencher had already 
0pent three of his distiohs, and only waited an opportunity 
to hear a sermon spoken of, that he might introduce the 
couplet* where " a stick" rhymes to " ecclesiastic." At my 
entrance into the room, they were naming a red petticoat and 
a cloak, by which I found that the Bencher had been divert- 
ing them with a story of Jack Ogle.f 

I had no sooner takien my seat, but Sir Jeoffry, to show 
his good-will towards me, gave me a pipe of his own tobacco, 
and stirred up the fire. I look upon it as a point of morality 

* In Hudibras. 

f The story is thns given in the notes to the variornm edition of 
the Tatler, published in 1797. Ogle once rode " as a private gentle- 
man, in the first troop of foot-gnards, at that time under the command 
of the Duke of Monmouth. He had pawned his trooper's cloak, and 
to save appearances at a review, had borrowed his landlady's red pet- 
ticoat, which he carried rolled up en croupe behind him. The Duke 
of Monmouth smoked it, and willing to enjoy the conflision of a de- 
tection, gave order to doak aU^ with which Ogle, after some hesita- 
tion, was obliged to comply. Although he could not cloaky he said be 
yrovi^ petHcpat Ydth the best of theni."— Vol. ill p. 124. 


to be obliged by those who endeavor to oMigo me; and 
therefore, in requital for his kindness, and to set the conver-' 
sation a-going, I took the best occasion I could to put him 
upon telling us the story of old Gantlett, which he alwajB 
does with very particular concern. He traced up his descent 
on both sides for several generations, describing his diet and 
manner of life, with his several battles, and particularly the 
one in which he fell. This Gantlett was a game-cock, upon 
whose head the knight, in his youth, had won five hundred 
pounds and lost two thousand. This naturally set the Major 
upon the account of Edge-hill fight, and ended in a duel of 
Jack Ogle's. 

Old Eeptile was extremely attentive to all that was said, 
though it was the same he had heard every night for these 
twenty years, and upon all occasions winked upon his nephew 
to mind what passed. 

This may suffice to give the world a taste of our innocent 
conversation, which we spim out till about ten of the clock, 
when my maid came with a lantern to light me home. I 
could not but reflect with myself, as I was going out, upon 
the talkative humor of old men, and the little figure which 
that part of life makes in one who cannot employ his natural 
propensity in discourses which would make him venerable. 
I must own it makes me very melancholy in company when 
I hear a young man begin a story ; and have often observed, 
that one of a quarter of an hour long in a man of five-and- 
twenty, gathers circumstances every time he tells it, until it 
grows into a long Canterbury tale of two hours by the time 
he is threescore. 

The only way of avoiding such a trifling and frivolous old 
age, is to lay up in our way to it such stores of knowledge 
and observation as make us useful and agreeable in our de- 
clining years^ Th€» mind o£ nun la ulxmg life< will. become a 



magazine of wisdom or folly, and will consequently discharge 
itself in something impertinent or improving. For which 
reason, as there is nothing more ridiculous than an old trifling 
story-teller, so there is nothing more venerable than one who 
has turned his experience to the entertainment and advan- 
tage of mankind. 

In short, we, who are in the last stage of life, and are apt 
to indulge ourselves in talk, ought to consider if what we 
speak be worth being heard, and endeavor to make our dis- 
course like that of Nestor, which Homer compares to the 
flowing of honey for its sweetness. 

I am afraid I shall be thought guilty of this excess I am 
speaking of, when I cannot conclude without observing, that 
Milton certainly thought of this passage in Homer, when, in 
his description of an eloquent spirit, he says — 

" His tongue dropped manna."* 

* We cannot miss the opportunity of adding to this account of 
the members of the Trumpet Club, that of another associate, whose 
character is drawn by Steele in a previous number, and is one of the 
finest that ever proceeded from his pea It shows his contempt of 
that ^surdest of all the passions of mortality — Pride. The reader 
will take notice of the exquisite expression " insolent benevolence */' 
and the " very insignificant fellow, but exceediug gracious.'' 

" The most remarkable (he says) of the persons whose disturbance 
arises from Pride, and whom I shall use all possible diligence to cure, 
are such as are hidden in the appearance of quite contrary habits and 
dispositions. Among such, I shall in the first place take care of one 
who is under the most subtle species of pride that I have observed in 
my whole experience. 

« This patient is a person for whom I have great respect, as being 
an old courtier and a friend of mine in my youth. The man has but 
a bare subsistence, just enough to pay his reckoning with us at the 
Trumpet ; but, by having spent the beginning of his life in the hearing 
of groat men and persons in power, he is always pronusiiig to do good 





THE first qlub I entered upon coming to town was that of 
the Choice Spirits. The name was entirely suited to my 
taste ; I was a lover of mirth, good-humor, and even some- 
times of fun, from my childhood. 

As no other passport was requisite but the payment of 
two shillings at the door, I introduced myself without farther 
ceremony to the members, who were already assembled, and 
had for some time begun upon business. The grand, with a 
mallet in his hand, presided at the head of the table. I could 
not avoid, upon my entrance, making use of all my skill in 
physiognomy, in order to discover that superiority of genius 
in men who had taken a title so superior to the rest of man- 
kind. I expected to see the lines of every face marked with 
strong thinking ; but, though I had some skill in this science, 
I could for my life discover nothing but a pert simper, fat 
or profound stupidity. 

My speculations were soon interrupted by the grand, who 

offices, to introduce eveiy man he converses with into the world ; will 
desire one of ten times his substance to let him see him sometimes, 
and hints to him that he does not forget him. He answers to matters 
of no consequence with great circnmspection ; but, however, maintains 
a general civility in his words and actions, and an insolent benevo- 
lence to all whom he has to do with. This he practises with a grave 
tone and air ; and though I am his senior by twelve years, and richer 
by forty pounds per annum, he had yesterday the impudence to com- 
mend me to my face, and tell me ' he should always be ready to en- 
courage me.' In a word, he is a very insignificant fellow, but exceeding 
gracious. The best return I can make him for his favors is to carry 
him myself to Bedlam, and see him well taken care of."-^7a^, 
Ko. 127. 


had knocked down Mr. Spriggins for a song. I was upon 
this whispered by one of the company who sat next me, that 
I should now see something touched off to a nicety, for Mr. 
Spriggins was going to give us Mad Tom in all its glory. 
Mr. Spriggins endeavored to excuse himself; for, as he was 
to act a madman and a king, it was impossible to go through 
the part properly without a crown and chains. His excuses 
were over-ruled by a great majority, and with much vocifera- 
tion. The president ordered up the jack-chain ; and, instead 
of a crown, our performer covered his brows with an inverted 
Jordan. After he had rattled his chain and shook his head, 
to the great delight of the whole company, he began his song. 
As I have heard few young fellows offer to sing in company 
that did not expose themselves, it was no great disappoint- 
ment to me to find Mr. Spriggins among the number : how- 
ever, not to seem an odd fish, I rose from my seat in rapture, 
cried out, " Bravo ! encore !" and slapped the table as loud 
as any of the rest. 

The gentleman who sat next me seemed highly pleased 
with my taste, and the ardor of my approbation ; and, whis- 
pering, told me I had suffered an immense loss, for, had I 
come a few minutes sooner, I might have heard " Geeho 
Dobbin" sung in a tip-top manner, by the pimple-nosed spirit 
at the president's right elbow ; but he was evaporated before 
I came. 

As I was expressing my uneasiness at this disappoint- 
ment, I found the attention of the company employed upon 
a fat figure, who, with a voice more rough than the Stafford- 
shire giant's, was giving us the "Softly sweet, in Lydian 
measure," of Alexander's Feast. After a short pause of ad- 
miration, to this succeeded a "Welsh dialogue, with the hu- 
mors of Teague and Taffy ; after that came on Old Jackson, 
with a story between every stanza ; next was sung the Poat- 


Cart, and then Solomon's Song. The glass began now to 
circulate pretty freely ; those who were silent when sober 
would now be heard in their turn ; every man had his song^ 
and he saw no reason Why he should not be heard as well as 
any of the rest ; one begged to be heard while he gave I>eath 
land the Lady in high taste ; another sung to a plate whidi he 
kept trundling on the edges ; nothing was now heard but 
singing ; voice rose above voice, and the whole became one 
universal shout, when the landlord came to acquaint the com- 
pany that the reckoning was drunk out. Babelais calls the 
moments in which a reckoning is mentioned, the most melanr 
choly of our lives; never was so much noise so quickly 
quelled, as by this short but pathetic oration of our landlord. 
^' Drunk out !" was echoed in a tone of discontent round the 
table ; " drunk out already ! that was very odd I that so much 
punch could be drunk out already ! impossible I" The land- 
lord, however, seeming resolved not to retreat from his first 
assurances, the company was dissolved, and a president chosen 
for the night ensuing. 

A friend of mine, to whom I was complaining some tune 
after of the entertainment I have been describing, proposed 
to bring me to the club that he frequented, which he fancied 
would suit the gravity of my temper exactly. " We hate, at 
the Muzzy Club," says he, '^ no riotous mirth, nor awkward 
ribaldry, no confusion or bawling, all is conducted with wis- 
dom and decency ; besides, some of our members are wortii 
forty thousand pounds, men of prudence and foresight every 
one of them ; these are the proper acquaintance, and to such 
I will to-night introduce you." I was charmed at the pro- 
posal. To be acquainted with men worth forty thousand 
pounds, and to talk wisdom the whole night, were offers that 
threw me into rapture. 

At seven o'clock I was accordinglj introdnoed by my 


friend ; not indeed to the company, for, though I made mj 
best bow, they seemed insensible of my approach ; but to the 
table at which they were sitting. Upon my entering the 
room, I could not avoid feeling a secret veneration, from the 
solemnity of the scene before me ; the members kept a pro- 
found silence, each with a pipe in his mouth and a pewter 
pot in his hand, and with faces that might easily be construed 
into absolute wisdom. Happy society ! thought I to myself 
where the members think before they speak, deliver nothing 
rashly, but convey their thoughts to each other, pregnant 
with meaning, and matured by reflection. 

In this pleasing speculation I continued a full half-hour, 
expecting each moment that somebody would begin to open 
his mouth. Every time the pipe was laid down, I expected 
it was to speak ; but it was only to spit. At length, resolving 
to break the charm myself, and overcome their extreme 
diffidence, for to this I imputed their silence, I rubbed my 
hands, and, looking as wise as possible, observed that the 
nights began to grow a little coolish at this time of the 
year. This, as it was directed to no one of the company in 
particular, none thought himself obliged to answer ; where- 
fore I continued still to rub my hands and look wise. My 
next effort was addressed to a gentleman who sat next me ; 
to whom I observed that the beer was extremely good ; my 
neighbor made no reply, but by a large puff of tobacco- 

I now began to be uneasy in this dumb society, till one 
of them a little relieved me by observing, that bread had not 
risen these three weeks. " Ah !" says another, still keeping 
the pipe in his mouth, " that puts me in mind of a pleasant 
story about that — hem — very well ; you must know — ^but, be- 
fore I begin — sir, my service to you — ^where was I ?" 

My next club goes by the name of t^e Harmonical So* 


oiety ; probably from that love of order and friendship which 
every person commends in institutions of this nature. The 
landlord was himself founder. The money spent is four- 
pence each, and they sometimes whip for a double reckoning. 
To this club few recommendations are requisite except the 
introductory fourpence and my landlord's good word, which 
as he gains by it, he never refuses. 

We all here talked and behaved as everybody else usu- 
ally does on his club-night. We discussed the topic of the 
day, drank each other's healths, snuffed the candles with our 
fingers, and filled our pipes from the same plate of tobacco. 
The company saluted each other in the common manner. 
Mr. Bellows-mender hoped Mr. Curry-comb-maker had not 
caught cold going home the last club-night ; and he returned 
the compliment by hoping, that young Master Bellows- 
mender had got well again of the chincough. Dr. Twist told 
us a story of a parliament-man, with whom he was intimately 
acquainted ; while the bagman, at the same time, was telling 
a better story of a noble lord, with whom he could do any- 
thing. A gentleman in a black wig and leather breeches, at 
the other end of the table was engaged in a long narrative 
of the ghost in Cock Lane ]* he had read it in the papers of 
the day, and was telling it to some that sat next him who 
could not read. Near him, Mr. Dibbins was disputing on 
the old subject of religion with a Jew pedler over the table { 
while the president vainly knocked down Mr. Leathersides 
for a song. Besides the combination of these voices, which 
I could hear altogether, and which formed an upper part to 
the concert, there were several others playing under-parts by 

* Ab impudent imposture of that day, in which it was pretended 
that a ghost scratched at a bed. Johnson was weak enough to be one 
of its grave investigators, and Churchill's Ghost was written in deri- 
sion of it. 



themfleWefl, and endeayorlng to fiurten on some luckless 
neighbor's ear, who was himself bent upon the same design 
against some other. 

We have often heard of the speech of a corporation, and 
this induced me to transcribe a speech of this club, taken in 
■hort-hand, word for word, as it was spoken by eyerj mem- 
ber of the company. It may be necessary to obserye, that 
the man who told us of the ghost had the loudest yoice, and 
the longest story to tell ; so that his continuing narratiye 
filled eyery chasm in Uie conyersation. 

'' So, sir, d'ye peroeiye me, the ghost giying three loud 
raps at the bed-post" — ^ Says my lord to me, my dear Smoke- 
um, you know there is no man on the face of the yearth for 
whom I haye so high" — ^'^A false heretical opinion of all 
sound doctrine and good learning ; for I'll tell it aloud and 
spare not, that" — ^^ Silence for a song ; Mr. Leathersides for 
a song" — ^^'As I was walking upon the highway, I met a 
young damsel"-—" * Then what brings you here V said the 
parson to the ghost" — " Sanconiathon, Manetho, and Berosus" 
^ The whole way from Islmgton turnpike to Dog-house bar" 
— ■" As for Abel Drugger, sir, he's low in it ; my 'prentice 
boy has more of the gentleman than he"* — ^ For murder will 
out one time or another ; and none but a ghost, you know, 
gentlemen, can" — ^^ For my friend, whom you know, gentle- 
men, and who is a parliament-man, a man of consequence, a 
dear honest creature, to be sure ; we were laughing last night 
at" — ^" Upon all his posterity, by simply, barely tasting" — 
" Sour grapes, as the fox said once when he could not reach 
them ; and I'll, I'll tell you a story about that, that will 
ipake you burst your sides with laughing. A fox once" — 
*< Will nobody listen to the song?" — ^ As I was walking upon 

* A compliment to Goldsmith's friend, Warrick, in the part of 
Abel Drugger J which was a yery low one. 


the highway, I met a young damsel beth buxom and gay" — 
*' No ghost, gentlemen, can be murdered ; nor did I ever 
bear of but one ghost killed in all my life, and that was 

" « Soul if I don't"—" Mr. Bellows-mender, I have the 

honor of drinking your very good health" — ^'^ Fire" — 
« Whizz"—" Blid"— " Tit"—" Rat"—" Trip"— the rest all 
riot, nonsense, and rapid confusion. 

Were I to be angry at men for being fools (concludes 
Goldsmith, with touching pleasantry), I could here find 
ample room for declamation ; but, alas 1 I have been a fool 
myself, and why should I be angry with them for being some* 
thing so natural to every child of humanity % 


The Adventures of Ferdinand Count Fathom is one of those rare 
works of genius, in a very unusual sense of the epithet, which a. read- 
er of a well-constituted mind is at a loss whether to admire or to dis- 
like. It is a history of such elaborate and unmitigated rascality, that 
one is surprised how the author's imagination could have consented 
to keep such a scoundrel company for so long a period. But there is 
one scene in it, which by universal consent is a masterpiece of inter- 
est ,' a mixture of the terrible and the probable that has often since 
been emulated, but never surpassed. It is to real life what the frag- 
ment of Sir Bertrand is icf the ideal ; and the writing is as fine as the 
conception. Smollett takes a delight in showing that the powers of his 
pen are equal to the most formidable occasions. He rejoices in *' pil- 
ing up an agony," especially on a victim not so courageous as himself; 
and by a principle of extremes meeting, a mischievous sarcasm, and 
strokes of humor itself, contribute to aggravate and envenom the 
impression of terror. 

FATHOM departed from the village that same afternoon 
under the auspices of his conductor, and found himself 
benighted in the midst of a forest, far from the habitations 
of men. The darkness of the night, the silence and solitude 
of the place, the indistinct images of the trees that appeared 


on every side stretching their extravagant arms athwart the 
gloom, conspired with the dejection of spirits occasioned by 
his loss to disturb his fancy, and raise strange phantoms in 
his imagination. Although he was not naturally supersti- 
tious, his mind began to be invaded with an awful horror, 
that gradually prevailed over all the consolations of reason 
and philosophy ; nor was his heart free from the terrors of 
assassination. In order to dissipate these disagreeable rev- 
eries, he had recourse to the conversation of his guide, by 
whom he was entertained with the history of divers travellers 
who had been robbed and murdered by rufi&ans, whose retreat 
was in the recesses of that very wood. 

In the midst of this communication, which did not at 
all tend to the elevation of our hero's spirits, the conductor 
made an excuse for dropping behind, while our traveller 
jogged on in expectation of being joined again by him in a 
few minutes ; he was, however, disappointed in that hope ; 
the sound of the horse's feet by degrees grew more and 
more faint, and at last altogether died away. Alarmed at 
this circumstance, Fathom halted in the road, and- listened 
with the most fearful attention ; but his sense of hearing 
was saluted with naught but the dismal sighings of the trees, 
that seemed to foretell an approaching storm. Accordingly, 
the heavens contracted a more dreary aspect, the lightning 
began to gleam, the thunder to roll, and the tempest, rais- 
ing its voice to a tremendous roar, descended in a torrent 
of rain. 

In this emergency, the fortitude of our hero was almost 
quite overcome. So many concurring circumstances of dan- 
ger and distress might have appalled the most undaunted 
breast ; what impression then must they have made upon the 
mind of Ferdinand, who was by no means a man to set fear 
at defiance ? Indeed he had well nigh lost the use of his r^ 


flection, and was actually inyaded to the skin, before he could 
recollect himself so far as to quit the road, and seek for shel- 
ter among the thickets that surrounded him. Haying rode 
some furlongs into the forest, he took his station under a 
tuft of tall trees, that screened him from the storm, and in 
that situation called a council with himself, to deliberate upon 
his next excursion. He persuaded himself that his guide had 
deserted him for the present, in order to give intelligence of 
a traveller to some gang of robbers with whom he was con- 
nected ; and that he must of necessity fall a prey to those 
^banditti, unless he should have the good fortune to elude 
their search, and disentangle himself from the mazes of the wood. 
Harrowed with these apprehensions, he resolved to com- 
mit himself to the mercy of the hurricane, as of two evils the 
least, and penetrate straight forwards through some devious 
opening, until he should be delivered from the forest. For 
this purpose he turned his horse's head in a line quite con- 
trary to the direction of the high road which he had left, on 
supposition that the robbers would pursue that tract in quest 
of him, and that they would never dream of his deserting 
the highway to traverse an unknown forest amidst the dark- 
ness of such a boisterous night. After he had continued in 
this progress through a succession of groves, and bogs, and 
thorns, and brakes, by which not only his clothes, but also 
his skin suflFered in a grievous manner, while every nerve 
quivered with eagerness aud dismay, he at length reached an 
open plain, and pursuing his course, in full hope of arriving 
at some village where his life would he safe, he descried a 
rushlight, at a distance, which he looked iipon as the star of 
his good fortune ; and riding towards it at full speed, arrived 
at the door of a lone cottage, into which he was admitted by 
Hkn old woman, who, understanding he was a bewildered travel* 
kr, received him with great hospitality. 


When he learned from his hostess that there was not 
another house within three leagues, and that she could ao- 
oommodate him with a tolerable bed, and his horse with 
lodging and oats, he thanked Heaven for his good fortune in 
stumbling upon this humble habitation, and determined to 
pass the night under the protection of the old cottager, who 
gave him to understand, that her husband, who was a fagot- 
maker, had gone to the next town to dispose of his merchan- 
dise, and that in all probability he would not return till the 
next morning, on account of the tempestuous night. Ferdi- 
nand sounded the beldame with a thousand artful interroga- 
tions, and she answered with such an appearance of truth and 
simplicity, that he concluded his person was quite secure ; 
and, after having been regaled with a dish of eggs and bacon, 
desired she would conduct him into the chamber where she 
proposed he should take his repose. He was accordingly 
ushered up by a sort of ladder into an apartment fUmished 
with a standing bed, and almost half filled with trusses of 
straw. He seemed extremely well pleased with his lodging, 
which in reality exceeded his expectations ; and his kind 
landlady, cautioning him against letting the candle approach 
the combustibles, took her leave, and locked the door on the 

Fathom, whose own principles taught him to be suspicious, 
and ever upon his guard against the treachery of his fellow- 
creatures, could have dispensed with this instance of her care 
in confining her guest to her chamber ; and began to be seized 
with strange fancies, when he observed that there was no bolt 
on the inside of the door, by which he might secure himself 
from intrusion. In consequence of these suggestions, he 
proposed to take an accurate survey of every object in the 
apartment, and, in the course of his inquiry, had the mortifi- 
cation to find the dead body of a man, still wurm, who ha^ 


been lately stabbed, and concealed beneath several bundles 
of straw. 

Such a discoyery could not fail to fill the breast of our 
hero with unspeakable horror ; for he concluded that he him- 
self would undergo the same fate before morning, without 
the interposition of a miracle in his fayor. In the first trans- 
ports of his dread he ran to the window, with a view to 
escape by that outlet, and found his flight effectually ob- 
structed by divers strong bars of iron. Then his heart began 
to palpitate, his hair to bristle up, and his knees to totter : 
his thoughts teemed with presages of death and destruction; 
his conscience rose up in judgment against him ; and he un- 
derwent a severe paroxysm of dismay and distraction. His 
spirits were agitated into a state of fermentation that pro- 
duced an energy akin to that which is inspired by brandy or 
other strong liquors ; and, by an impulse that seemed super- 
natural, he was immediately hurried into measures for his 
own preservation. 

What upon a less interesting occasion his imagination 
durst not propose, he now executed without scruple or re- 
morse. He undressed the corpse that lay bleeding among 
the straw, and conveying it to the bed in his arms, deposited 
it in the attitude of a person who sleeps at his ease ; then he 
extinguished the light, took possession of the place from 
whence the body had been removed, and, holding a pistol 
ready cocked in each hand, waited for the sequel with that de- 
termined purpose which is often the immediate production of 
despair. About midnight he heard the sound of feet ascend- 
ing the ladder; the door was softly opened; he saw the 
shadow of two men stalking towards the bed ; a dark lantern 
being unshrouded, directed their aim to the supposed sleeper ; 
and he that held it thrust a poniard to his heart. The force 
of the blow made a compression on the chest, and a sort of 


groan issued from the windpipe of the defunct ; the stroke 
was repeated without producing a repetition of the note, so 
that the assassins concluded the work was effectually done, 
and retired for the present, with a design to return and rifle 
the deceased at their leisure. 

Never had our hero spent a moment in such agony as he 
felt during this operation. The whole surface of his body 
was ooyered with a cold sweat, and his neryes were relaxed 
with an universal palsy. In short, he remained in a trance, 
that in all probability contributed to his safety ; for had he 
retained the use of his senses, he might have been discovered 
by the transports of his fear. The first use he made of his 
retrieved 'recollection, was to perceive that the assassins had 
left the door open in their retreat ; and he would have in- 
stantly availed himself of this their neglect, by sallying out 
upon them at the hazard of his life, had not he been restrained 
by a conversation he overheard in the room below, importing 
that the ruffians were going to set out upon another expedi- 
tion, in hopes of finding more prey. They accordingly de- 
parted, after having laid strong injunctions on the old woman 
to keep the door fast locked during their absence ; and Ferdi- 
nand took his resolution without farther delay. So soon as, 
by his conjecture, the robbers were at a sufficient distance 
from the house, he rose from his lurking-place, moved softly 
towards the bed, and rummaging the pockets of the deceased, 
found a purse well stored with ducats, of which, together with 
a silver watch and a diamond ring, he immediately possessed 
himself without scruple; and then, descending with great 
care and circumspection into the lower apartment, stood be- 
fore the old beldame, before she had the least intimation of 
his approach. 

Accustomed as she was to the trade of blood, the hoary 
hag did not behol^ this apparition without giving signs of 


infinite terror and astonishment Believing it was no otber 
than the spirit of her second guest, who had been murdered, 
she fell upon her knees, and began to recommend herself to 
the protection of the saints, crossing herself with as much 
devotion as if she had been entitled to the particular care and 
attention of Heaven. Nor did her anxiety abate when she 
was undeceived in this her supposition, and understood it was 
no phantom, but the real substance of the stranger ; who, 
without staying to upbraid her with the enormity of her 
crimes, commanded her, on pain of immediate death, to pro- 
duce his horse ; to which being conducted, he set her on the 
saddle without delay, and mounting behind, invested her with 
the management of the reins, swearing, in a most peremptory 
tone, that the only chance for her life was in directing him 
to the next town ; and that as soon as she should give him 
the least cause to doubt her fidelity in the performance of 
that task, he would on the instant act the part of her exe- 

This declaration had its effect on the withered Hecate, 
who, with many supplications for mercy and forgiveness, 
promised to guide him in safety to a certain village at the 
distance of two leagues, where he might lodge in security, 
and be provided with a fresh horse, or other conveniences 
for pursuing his route. On these conditions he told her she 
might deserve his clemency ; and they accordingly took their 
departure together, she being placed astride upon the saddle, 
holding the bridle in one hand, and a switch in the other, 
and our adventurer sitting on the crupper, superintending 
her conduct, and keeping the muzzle of a pistol close at her 
ear. In this equipage they travelled across part of the same 
wood in which his guide had forsaken him : and it is not to 
be supposed that he passed his time in the most agreeable 
toverie, while he found himself involved in the labyrinth of 


tlios^ shiides, which he considered as the haunts of robbery 
and assassination. 

Common fear was a comfortable sensation to what he felt 
in this excursion. The first steps he had taken for his pres- 
ervation were the effect of mere instinct, while his faculties 
were extinguished or suppressed by despair ; but now, as his 
reflection began to recur, he was haunted by the most intol- 
erable apprehensions. Every whisper of the wind through 
the thickets was swelled into the hoarse menaces of murder ; 
the shaking of the boughs was construed into the bran- 
dishing of poniards ; and every shadow of a tree became the 
apparition of a ruffian eager for blood. In short, at each of 
these occurrences he felt what was infinitely more tormenting 
than the stab of a real dagger ; and at every fresh fillip of 
his fear, he acted as a remembrancer to his conductress in a 
new volley of imprecations, importing, that her life was abso- 
lutely connected with his opinion of his own safety. 

Human nature could not long subsist under such compli- 
cated terror ; but at last he foimd himself clear of the forest, 
and was blessed with a distant view of an inhabited place. 
He then began to exercise his thoughts on a new subject. 
He debated with himself whether he should make a parade 
of his intrepidity and public spirit, by disclosing his achieve- 
ment, and surrendering his guide to the penalty of the law, 
or leave the old hag and her accomplice to the remorse of 
their own consciences, and proceed quietly on his journey to 
Paris, in undisturbed possession of the prize he had already 
obtained. This last step he determined to take upon recol- 
lecting, that, in the course of his information, the story of the 
murdered stranger would infallibly attract the attention of 
justice, and, in that case, the effects he had borrowed from 
the defunct must be refunded for the benefit of those who 
had a right to the succession. This was an argument which 


our adyentorer could not resist : he foresaw that he should 
he stripped of his acquisition, which he looked upon as the 
fair fruits of his valor and sagacity ; and moreoyer, be detain- 
ed as an eyidence against the robbers, to the manifest detri- 
ment of his affairs. Perhaps, too, he had motives of con- 
science that dissuaded him from bearing witness against a 
set of people whose principles did not much differ from his 

Influenced by such considerations, he yielded to the first 
importunity of the beldame, whom he dismissed at a very 
small distance from the village, after he had earnestly exhort- 
ed her to quit such an atrocious course of life, and atone for 
her past crimes by sacrificing her associates to the demands 
of justice. She did not faM to vow a perfect reformation, and 
to prostrate herself before him for the favor she had found ; 
then she betook herself to her habitation, with the full pur- 
pose of advising her fellow-murderers to repair with all de- 
spatch to the village and impeach our hero ; who, wisely dis- 
trusting her professions, stayed no longer in the place than to 
hire a guide for the next stage, which brought him to the 
city of Chalons-Sur-Mame. 

€^ Btnnit. 


We know not how it is with others, bat we never think of Par^ 
neWs Hermit without tranquillizing and grateftil feelings. Pamell was 
a true poet of a minor order ; he saw nature for himself, though he 
wrote a book style ; and this, and one or two other poems of his, such 
as the eclogue on Healthy and the Fairy Tale^ have inclined us to 
believe that there is something in the very name of " Pamell'' pecu- 
liarly gentle and agreeable. Hermits themselves, in poetry, are al- 
most always interesting and soothing x>eople. We see nothing but 
their brooks, their solitude, and their resignation, their hermitage and 
their crust ; and long to be like them, and play at loneliness. 

*tAnd may at last my weary age 
Find out the peaceful hermitage, 
The hairy gown, and mossy cell, 
Where I may sit and rightly spell 
Of every star that heaven doth show* 
And every herb that sips the dew, 
Till old experience do attain 
To something like prophetic strain.** 

So, who does not love Goldsmith's Edwin and Angelina^ and the 
gentle line with which it sets out % — 

*^Tam, gentle hermit of the dale." 

Drayton tears himself away with relactance fh>m a long list of herbs, 


which he describes a hermit gathering, in his Polyolhion. The follov- 
ing are some of the verses. " The Hermit," he says, 

-u leads a sweet retired life. 

Suppose, Hwixt noon and night, (the suo his half-way wrought) 
The siiadows to be large, by his descending brought. 
Who with a fervent eye looks through the twyring* glades, 
And his dispersed rays commixeth with the shades, 
Exhaling the milchf dew, which there had tarried long, 
And on the ranker grass till past the noon-stead hung;" 

" *Tis then," he says, 

'* the hermit comes out of his homely cell, 

Where from all rude resort, he happily doth dwell ; 
And in a little maundi^ (being made of osiers small), 
Which serveth him to do full many a thing withal. 
He very choicely sorts his simples, got abroad. 
Here finds he on an oak rheum-purging polypode ;} 
And in some open place that to the sun doth lie, 
Be fumitory gets, and eyebright for the eye ; 
And from the falling-ill by fiye-leaf | doth restore, 
And melancholy cures by sovereign hellebore." 

But Pamell's hermit is not only a proper hermit, with a " cave** 
for his " cell," 

*< His food the ftuits, his drink the crystal well;*' 

he is a questioning philosopher. Resigned as he is to Providence, he 
is not without doubts as to its attributes, occasioned by the sufferings . 
of virtue and the seeming triumphs of vice ; and an angel is sent to 
restore peace to his mind. The way in which this is done, though it 
does not go into the permission of evil in the, abstract (one of the se- 
crets of good, which Heaven seems to keep in reserve for us, in order 
to enhance the joys of retrospection), furnishes, nevertheless, a far 
better and more Christian answer, than the assumptions of many a 
graver authority. It Ls not Pamell's own. The story is as old, at 
least, as the Koran, probably a great deal older ; and has most likely 

* Turning and winding. 

t Soft. Perhaps in pastoral analogy with milk, 

X Basket. 

I Polypodium (Many-foot), a ^enu* of fern. 

I Cinque-foil— Pot0nt»//a (firom its medical powers)~a flower of the order 


been told in the languages of all civilized countries. Bat ParncU's 
is the most pleasing version of it we know. The undertone of thought 
and wonder, on the hermit's part, is well preserved ; the touches of 
scenery evince the author's taste for nature ; and even the sweet 
monotony of the versification (so like Pope's, that he has been invidi- 
ously 8aid to have had a hand in it), is not unsuitable to the eremeti- 
cal ground-work of the subject and the lesson of resignation. 

Parnell was a gentle clergyman, who, with all his inculcations of 
patience and retirement, found it difficult to reconcile himself to a 
desolate spot in Ireland, and impossible (it is said) to bear the loss of 
his wife. We often preach what we cannot practise, not out of hypoc- 
risy, but from opposing frailties and unavailing desire. Parnell ad- 
mired his hermit the more, because he could not settle down to his 
solitude and his bin of water. There is a touching passage about him 
in one of the letters of Swift. Bolingbroke's second wife was like the 
one that Parnell had lost. The poor poet saw her, for the first time, 
on a visit at Bolingbroke's house ; and when she came into the room, 
Swift says, he could not take his eyes off her, and seemed very 


FAR in a wild, unknown to public view, 
From youth to age a reverend hermit grew ; 
The moss his bed, the cave his humble cell, 
His food the fruits, his drink the crystal well ; 
Remote from men, with God he passed his days, 
Prayer all his business, all his pleasure praise. 

A life so sacred, such serene repose, 
Seemed heaven itself, till one suggestion rose ; 
That vice should triumph, virtue vice obey, 
This sprung some doubt of Providence's sway ; 
His hopes no more a certain prospect boast, 
And all the tenor of his soul is lost. 
So when a smooth expanse receives^ imprest 
Calm Nature's image on its watery breast, 


Down bend the banks, the trees depending grow, 
And skies beneath with answering colors glow : 
But if a stone the gentle sea divide, 
Swift ruffling circles curl on every side ; ** 
And glimmering fragments of a broken sun, 
Banks, trees, and skies, in thick disorder run. 
To clear this doubt, to know the world by sight. 
To find if books, or swains, report it right, 
(For yet by swains alone the world he knew, 
Whose feet came wandering o'er the nightly dew,) 
He quits his cell ; the pilgrim staff he bore, 
And fix'd the scallop in his hat before ; 
Then with the sun a rising journey went. 
Sedate to think, and watching each event. 

The mom was wasted in the pathless grass. 
And long and lonesome was the wild to pass ; 
But when the southern sun had warmed the day, 
A youth came posting o'er a crossing way ; 
His raiment decent, his complexion fair, 
And soft in graceful ringlets wav'd his hair. 
Then, near approaching, " Father, hail !" he cried. 
And " Hail, my son," the reverend sire replied ; 
Words followed words, from question answer flow'd, 
And talk of various kind deceiv'd the iroad ; 
Till each with other pleas'd, and loth to part. 
While in their age they differ, join in heart 
Thus stands an aged elm, in ivy bound ; 
Thus youthful ivy clasps an elm around. 

Now sunk the sun ; the closing hour of day 
Came onward, mantled o'er with sober gray ; 
Nature in silence bid the world repose. 
When near the road a stately palace rose ; 


There, by the moon, through ranks of trees they pass, 

Whose verdure crown'd their sloping sides of grass. 

It chanced the noble master of the dome 

Still made his house the wandering stranger's home ; 

Yet still the kindness, from a thirst of praise, 

Prov'd the vain flourish of expensive ease. 

The pair arrive ; the liveried servants wait, 

Their lord receives them at the pompous gate ; 

The table groans with costly piles of food. 

And all is more than hospitably good. 

Then led to rest, the day's long toil they drown. 

Deep sunk in sleep, and silk, and heaps of down. 

At length 'tis mom, and at the dawn of day, 
Along the wide canals the zephyrs play : 
Fresh o'er the gay parterres the breezes creep, 
And shake the neighboring wood to banish sleep. 
Up rise the guests obedient to the call. 
An early banquet deck'd the splendid hall ; 
Bich luscious wine a golden goblet grac'd. 
Which the kind master forc'd the guests to taste. 
Then pleas'd and thankful from the porch they go ; 
And, but the landlord, none had cause of woe : 
His cup was vanished ; for, in secret guise. 
The younger guest purloin'd the glittering prize. 

As one who spies a serpent in his way. 
Glistening and basking in the summer ray, 
Disorder'd stops to shun the danger near. 
Then walks with faintness on, and looks with fear ; 
So seem'd the sire, when far upon the road 
The shining spoil his wily partner show'd. 
He stopp'd with silence, walk'd with trembling heart. 
And much he wish'd, but durst not ask to part ; 



Mnnnarmg he lifte hifl eyes, and thmbt it hird 
That generous actions meet a base reward. 

While thus they pass, the sun his glory shrouds^ 
The changing skies hang out their sable clouds ; 
A sound in air presaged t^proaching tain, 
And beasts to covert scud across the plain. 
Wam'd by the signs, the wandering pair retreat 
To seek for shelter at a neigfaboHng seat 
'Twas built with turrets on a rbing ground. 
And strong, and large, and unimproved around ; 
Its owner's temper timorous and severe. 
Unkind and griping, caused a desert there. 

As near the miser's heavy doors they drew, 
Fierce rising gusts with sudden fury blew ; 
The nimble lightning mix'd with showers began, 
And o'er their heads loud rolling thunder ran. 
Here long they knock, but knock or call in Vain^ 
Driven by the wind, and batter'd by the tain. 
At length some pity warm'd the master's breast 
('Twas then his threshold first received a guest) ; 
Slow creaking turns the door with jealous care^ 
And half he welcomes in the shivering pair : 
One frugal fagot lights the naked walls, 
And Nature's fervor through their limbs recalls ; 
Bread of the coarsest sort, with eager wine,* 
(Each hardly granted) serv'd them both to dine ; 
And when the tempest first appear'd to cease, 
A ready warning bid them part in peace. 

With still remark the pondering hermit viewed, 
In one so rich, a life so poor and rude ; 

♦ The word eager is here used in its old sense of " sour**— <»^; 
and if we interpret "wine" i»cc<»dingly, "eiigw Wittb" Uiotild If 
vinegar — vin-^igre. 


And why should such within himself, he oried, 
Lock the lost wealth a thousand want beside % 
But what new marks of wonder soon took place 
In every settling feature of his face, 
When from his yest the young companion bore 
The cup the generous landlord own'd before, 
And paid profusely with the precious bowl 
The stinted kindness of his churlish soul 1 

But now the clouds in airy tumult fly ; 
The sun emerging opes an azure sky ; 
A fresher green the smiling leaves display, 
And, glittering as they tremble, cheer the day ] 
The weather courts them from the poor retreat, 
And the glad master bolts the wary gate. 

While hence they walk, the pilgrim's bosom wrought 
With all the travel of uncertain thought ; 
His partner's acts without their cause appear, 
'Twas there a vice, and seemed a madness here \ 
Detesting that, and pitying this, he goes, 
Lost and confounded with the various shows. 

Now night's dim shades again involve the sky, 
Again the wanderers want a place to lie ; 
Again they search, and find a lodging nigh. 
The soil improved around, the mansion neat, 
And neither poorly low, nor idly great, 
It seem'd to speak its master's turn of mind, 
Content, and not to praise, but virtue kind. 

Hither the walkers turn their weary feet, 
Then bless the mansion, and the master greet ; 
Their greeting fair, bestow'd with modest guise, 
The courteou9 master hears, And thus replies : 
^ Without a Tftin, viithooA a grudging Iteart, 
To him who gives us all, I yield a part ; 


From him you come, from him accept it here, 
A frank and sober, more than costly cheer." 
He spoke, and bid the welcome table spread, 
They talk of virtue till the time of bed ; 
When the grave household round his hall repair, 
Wam'd by a bell, and close the hours with prayer. 

At length the world, renewed by calm repose, 
Was strong for toil ; the dappled mom arose ; 
Before the pilgrims part, the younger crept 
Near the closed cradle where an infant slept. 
And writh'd its neck ; the landlord's little pride, 
strange return ! grew black, and gasp'd, and died. 
Horror of horrors I what I his only son ! 
How look'd our hermit when the fact was done ; 
Not hell, though hell's black jaws in sunder part, 
And breathe blue fire, could more assault his heart. 

Confus'd, and struck with silence at the deed. 
He flies ; but, trembling, fails to fly with speed ; 
His steps the youth pursues ; the country lay 
Perplex'd with roads ; a servant show'd the way ; 
A river cross'd the path, the passage o'er 
Was nice to find ; the servant trod before ; 
Long arms of oak an oaken bridge supplied. 
And deep the waves beneath the bending glide ,* 
The youth, who seem'd to watch a time to sin. 
Approached the careless guide and thrust him in ; 
Plunging he falls, and rising, lifts his head, 
Then flashing turns, and sinks among the dead. 

Wild sparkling rage inflame the father's eyes, 
He bursts the bands of fear, and madly cries, 
" Detested wretch !" — but scarce his speech began, 
When the strange partner seemed no longer man ] 


His youtliful face grew more serenely sweet ; 
His robe turned white, and flowed upon his feet ; 
Fair rounds of radiant points invest his hair ; 
Celestial odors breathe through purpled air ; 
And wings, whose colors glittered on the day, 
Wide at his back their gradual plumes display ; 
The form ethereal burst upon his sight, 
And moves in ail the majesty of light. 

Though loud at first the pilgrim's passion grew. 
Sudden he gaz'd, and wist not what to do ; 
Surprise in secret chains his words suspends. 
And in a calm his settling temper ends. 
But silence here the beauteous angel broke 
(The voice of music ravish'd as he spoke). 

" Thy prayer, thy praise, thy life to vice unknown, 
In sweet memorial rise before the throne ; 
These charms success in our bright region find, 
And force an angel down to calm thy mind ; 
For this commission'd, I forsook the sky ; 
Nay, cease to kneel, thy fellow-servant I. 

" Then know the truth of government divine, 
And let these scruples be no longer thine. 

" The Maker justly claims that world he made, 
In this the right of Providence is laid ; 
Its sacred majesty through all depends 
On using second means to work his ends : 
'Tis thus, withdrawn in state from human eye. 
The Power exerts his attributes on high ; 
Your actions uses, nor controls your will, 
And bids the doubting sons of men be still. 

" What strange events can strike with more surprise 
Than those which lately struck thy wondering eyes ? 


Tet, taught bj these, confess the Almighty just, 
And where yon can't unriddle, learn to trust ! 

" The great, rain man, who far'd on costly food, 
Whose life was too luxurious to be good, 
Who made his ivory stands with goblets shine, 
And foro'd his guests to morning draughts of wine, 
Has, with the cup, the graceless custom lost, 
And still he welcomes, but with less of cost* 

'^ The mean, suspicious wretch, whose bolted door 
Ne'er mov'd in duty to the wandering poor ; 
With him I left the cup, to teach his mind 
That Heaven can bless, if mortals will be kind. 
Conscious of wanting worth, he views the bowl, 
And feels compassion touch his grateful soul. 
Thus artists melt the sullen ore of lead. 
With heaping coals of fire upon its head ; 
In the kind warmth the metal learns to glow, 
And, loose from dross, the silver runs below. 

" Long had our pious friend in virtue trod. 
But now the child half wean'd his heart from Qod ; 
Child of his age, for him he liv'd in pain, 
And measured back his steps to earth again. 
To what excesses had his dotage run ? 
But God, to save the father, took the son. 
To all, but thee, in fits he seemed to go. 
And 'twas my ministry to deal the blow : 
The poor fond parent, humbled in the dust, 
Now owns, in tears, the punishment was just. 

'^ But now had all his fortune felt a wrack, 
Had that false servant sped in safety back : 
This night his treasured heaps he meant to steal. 
And what a fund of charity would fail I 


Thus Heayen instructs thy mind : this trial o'er, 
Depart in peace, resign, and sin no more." 

On sounding pinions here the youth withdrew, 
The sage stood wondering as the seraph flew. 
Thus look'd Elisha, when, to mount on high, 
His master took the chariot of the sky ; 
The fiery pomp ascending left to view ; 
The prophet gaz'd, and wished to follow too. 

The bending hermit here a prayer begun. 
Lord ! asin heaven^ on earth thy imll be done : 
Then, gladly turning, sought his ancient place, 
And passed a life of piety and peace. 

FROM Fielding's " Joseph aj^drews." 

There was once in great vogue a book called Pamela^ or Virtue 
Rewarded^ the object of which was to show how a servant-maid might 
be very virtuous, in the heavenly sense of the word, and very prosper- 
ous, in the worldly ; a combination which, in the author's opinion, was 
effected by making her resist all the efforts of a vicious master to ruin 
her, and then accept his hand in marriage when he found he could 
obtain her in no other way. Society is so much advanced in reflec- 
tion since the writing of that book, that a moral so bad would now 
meet with contempt from critics of all classes, even though recom- 
mended by as rare and affecting a genius as his who taught it, and 
who was no less a person than Samuel Richardson, author of Clarissa 
Harlowe. With much that is admirable and noble, there is a great 
deal of f^se morality even in Clarissa; a dangerous exaltation of the 
formal, and literal, and self-worshipping, above the heartier dictates 
of prudence itself. But the moral in Pamela (with leave of a great 
name, be it said), was a pure vulgar mistake. The master was a 
scoundrel to whom an honest girl ought not to have been given in 
marriage at all ; and the heroine was a prig and a schemer, with no 
real respect for the virtues she professed, otherwise she would not 
have jumped at the first " honorable" offbr from one who had done all 
he could to destroy her. 

The healthier genius of Fielding saw the folly of these ethics ; and, 
seasoning his wish to counteract them with a spice of no ill-natured 
malice against the author (who was in the habit of making another 


vulgar mistake, and applying that epithet to all who wrote of humble 
life not in his own manner, particularly Fielding himself), produced 
the exquisite novel of Joseph Andrews. In this, not his greatest, but 
in our opinion most delightful work, he has ^ntrived, with a most 
unexpected, successful, and (to Richardson, we fear) most provoking 
admission of the value of his moral when put into right action, to 
make Joseph Andrews Pamela's own brother, both in blood and vir- 
tue ; to maintain his manly character nevertheless, in spite of conven- 
tional jests and prejudices ; and, at the same time, to show how little 
of her pretended purity and humility was in the sister, who in admi- 
rable keeping with the spirit of her matrimonial virtue, objects to her 
brother's marrying a girl in her own former condition of society, be- 
cause it was lowering the family which her "dear Mr. B." had 
" raised." As a pleasant instance of Fielding's quickness and vivacity 
in small matters as well as great, this " Mr. B." of Richardson (for his 
name never appears in that author except as an initial) is assumed by 
Fielding to have been a Mr. " Booby." Mr. Booby's fine town-lady 
aunt. Lady B., thus becomes Lady Booby. She and her nephew enin- 
ble us to see, that people of no real heart and goodness, whatever be 
their rank, riches, or gaiety, may deserve the appellation of fool, as 
well as humbler or more solemn pretenders ; and this is one of the 
many instances, we think, in which an exception should be made in 
favor of those characteristical names of persons in works of fiction, to 
which critics make wholesale objection. Names of the kind often oc- 
cur in real life, sometimes with ludicrous propriety; and if similar 
ones could be taken away fVom the novels in which we have been 
used to them, people would reasonably miss the Boobies palmed upon 
Richardson, the Pickles and Bowlings of Smollett, the Snakes and Sir 
Anthony Absolutes of Sheridan, and the Marplots and AimweUs of Gent- 
livre and Farquhar. We confess we should be loth to lose even the 
Dryasdusts of Sir Walter, excessive as they may appear. Fortune 
herself, (not to say Nature) seems to take pleasure in these whims of 
cognomination. Who has not met with stout gentlemen of the name 
of Onslow and Heaviside ; lively Miss Quicks, and languishing Mrs. 
Sweets 1 

Joseph Andrews is a footman who marries a maid-servant. They 
are excellent persons, and have a delicious friend in Mr. Abraham 
Adams, a country curate, who prefers his iBschylus to everything but 
his duty. He is one of the simplest but at the same time manliest 



of men ; is anxious to read a man of the world his sermon on '' van^ 
it J ;" preaches patience under affliction, and is ready to lose his sen- 
ses on the death of his little boy ; in short, has " every virtue under 
heaven," except that of superiority to the common failings of human- 
ity, or of being able to resist knocking a rascal down when he insults 
the innocent He is very poor ; and, agreeably to the notions of re- . 
flnement in those days, is treated by the rich as if he were little bet- , 
ter than a servant himself. Even their stewards think it a condescen- 
fion to treat him on equal terms. In the following scene, which is 
one of the most exquisite in all novel-writing, the reader experiences 
a delightful triumph in seeing how a vulgar upstart of this class is led 
to betray his baseness while he thinks he is most exalting himself-— 
Adams, on the other hand, rising and becoming glorious out of the 
depths of his humble honesty. The picture gives you such a vivid 
idea of the two men, that not having read it for some years, we had 
fimcied, in the interval, that when Pounce throws the curate's hat 
after him out of the window. Fielding had represented Adams as 
clapping it triumphantly on his head, and snapping his fingers at him. 
But this is the way with fine writers. In suggesting more than they 
lay, they write more than they do. 

PETER POUNCE, being desirous of having some one to 
whom he might communicate his grandeur, told the par- 
son he would convey him home in his chariot. This favor 
was, by Adams, with many bows and acknowledgments, ac- 
cepted, though he afterwards said he ascended the chariot 
rather that he might not offend, than from any desire of rid- 
ing in it, for that in his heart he preferred the pedestrian 
even to the vehicular expedition. 

The chariot had not proceeded far before Mr Adams ob- 
seryed it was a very fine day. 

" Aye, and a very fine country, too," answered Pounoe. | 
"• I should think so more," returned Adams, '^ if I had not ,• 
lately laravelled over the Downs, which I take to ezoeed this^ 
and 931 other prospects in the nniverM." 


^' A fig for prospects," answered Pounce ; ^ one acre here 
is worth ten there ; for zny part, I have no delight in the 
prospect of any land but my own." 

" Sir," said Adams, '^yon* can indulge yourself in many 
fine prospects of that kind." 

'^ I thank God I have a little," replied the other, ''with 
which I am content, and envy no man. I have a little, Mr. 
Adams, with which I do as much good as I can." 

Adams answered, ''That riches, without charity, were 
nothing worth ; for that they were a blessing oiily to him 
who made them a blessing to others." 

" You and I," said Peter, " have different notions of char- 
ity. I own, as it is generally used, I do not like the word, 
nor do I think it becomes one of us gentlemen ; it is a mean, 
parson-like quality ; though I would not infer that many par* 
sons have it neither." 

" Sir," said Adams, " my definition of charity is a generous 
disposition to relieve the distressed." 

" There is something in that definition," answered Peter, 
"which I like well enough ; it is, as you say, a disposition — 
and does not so much consist in the act as in the disposition 
to do it ; but, alas ! Mr. Adams, who are meant by the 
distressed ? believe me, the distresses of mankind are mostly 
imaginary, and it would be rather folly than goodness to re- 
lieve them." 

"Sure, sir" replied Adams, "hunger and thirst, cold and 
nakedness, and other distresses which attend the poor, can 
never be said to be imaginary evils." 

" How can any man complain of hunger," said Pounce, 
" in a country where such excellent salads are to be gathered 
almost in every field ?— or of thirst, where every stream and 
river produce such delicious potations ? — and as for cold and 

iwkednesfl, th^y lure eyU^ i«tro4ao<Kl by limmr apd ^eiMtg^i. 


A man naturally wants clothes no more than a horse or any 
other animal ; and there are whole nations who go without 
them. But these are things, perhaps, which you, who do not 
know the world " 

" You will pardon me, sir," returned Adams ; " I have 
read of the Gymnosophists." 

" A plague of your Jehosaphats," cried Peter ; " the great- 
est fault in our constitution is the provision made for the poor, 
except that perhaps made for some others. Sir, I have not 
an estate which doth not contribute almost as much again to 
the poor as to the land-tax ; and I do assure you I expect 
myself to come to the parish in the end." 

To which Adams giving a dissenting smile, Peter thus 
proceeded : — " I fancy, Mr. Adams, you are one of those who 
imagine I am a lump of money ; for there are many who I 
fancy believe that not only my pockets, but my whole clothesj 
are lined with bank bills ; but, I assure you, you are all mis- 
taken ; I am not the man the world esteems me. If I can 
hold my head above water, it is all I can. I have injured 
myself by purchasing; I have been too liberal of my money. 
Indeed I fear my heir will find my affairs in a worse situa- 
tion than they are reputed to be. Ah ! he will have reason to 
wish I had loved money more and land less. Pray, my 
good neighbor, where should I have that quantity of money 
the world is so liberal to bestow on me ? Where could I 
possibly, without I had stole it, acquire such a treasure ?" 

" Why truly," said Adams, " I have been always of your 
opinion ; I have wondered, as well as yourself, with what con- 
fidence they could report such things of you, which have to 
me appeared as mere impossibilities ; for you know, sir, and 
I have often heard you say it, that your wealth is of your own 
acquisition ; and can it be credible that in your short time 
vou should have amassed such a heap of treasure as theise 


people will have you are worth ? Indeed, had you iuherited 
an estate like Sir Thomas Booby, which had descended in 
your family through many generations, they might have had 
a color for their assertions." 

" Why, what do they say I am worth ?" cries Peter, with 
a malicious sneer. 

" Sir," answered Adams, " I have heard some aver you 
are not worth less than twenty thousand pounds." At which 
Peter frowned. 

" Nay, sir," said Adams, " you ask me only the opinion 
of others ; for my own part, I have always denied it, nor , 
did I ever believe you could possibly be worth half that 

" However, Mr. Adams," said he, squeezing him by the 
hand, ^ I would not sell them all I am worth for double that 
sum ; and as to what you believe, or they believe, I care not 
a fig. I am not poor, because you think me so, nor because 
you attempt to undervalue me in the country. I know the 
envy of mankind very well ; but I thank heaven I am above 
them. It is true, my wealth is of my own acquisition. I 
have not an estate like Sir Thomas Booby, that hath descend- 
ed in my family through many generations ; but I know heirs 
of such estates, who are forced to travel about the -country, 
like some people in torn cassocks, and might be glad to ac- 
cept of a pitiful curacy, for what I know ; yes, sir, as shabby 
fellows as yourself, whom no man of my figure, without that 
vice of good-nature about him, would su£Fer to ride in a char- 
iot with him." 

'^ Sir," said Adams, '^ I value not your chariot of a rush ; 
and if I had known you had intended to affiront me, I would 
have walked to the world's end on foot, ere I would have 
accepted a place in it. However, sir, I will soon rid you of 
that inconvenience !" And so saying, he opened the chariot 


door, without calling to the coaohman, and leaped out into 
the highway, forgetting to take hiB hat along with him; 
which, however, Mr. Pounce threw after him with great 

^mn tttritttit oi on M ot Mn\ti\. 


" Shall I not take/' said Falstaff, with an exquisite dnplication 
of the personal pronoun, " wune ease at mine INN V 

The question might induce us to fimcy, that he had another 
ahode ; that it was as much as to say, " Must I go and encounter my 
difficulty at my lodgings V* But be meant it as an appeal to the ex- 
pectations of eyerybody. Everybody, the moment he entered an 
inn, looked to being thoroughly at his ease ; to possess comfort and 
security as surely as he did the things he paid for. 

And this is the feeling we all have of an inn. It is not comi>arable 
with home, on the very gravest or the very gayest occasions ; much 
less as a place to reside in ; but as a place to visit, there is nothiog 
like it. It is like being abroad and at home at the same time ; abroad, 
in respect to the novelty ; and at home, as regards doing what we 
please. We are not sufficiently used to it, to feel a thankless indif^- 
ence ; neither do we entertain such affection for it, as converts interest 
into anxiety. — But we do it injustice in writing sentences about it. 
There is nothing sententious at an inn (except on the window-panes) ; 
it is only free and easy. If you are wise, it is with mirth : if you run 
the whole round of philosophy with some '* learned Theban" of a 
finend, it is after dinner, when the blood is running the finer round of 
cheerfulness, to which you feel that the other round is only subordi- 
nate. The top things throughout are the dinner, and the inn, and the 
reciprocity ; luid you only wish that all the world were as happy as 
yourselves, wondering that they are not so, and that eyerybody does 


not do as he pleases upon the strength of the " Rose and Crown" and 
universal benevolence. 

By an inn, however, we do not mean any inn ; no, not even with 
companions who can make us forget everything else ; for on their ac- 
count also we desire an inn perfect of its kind ; and this, we take it, 
is an old inn that has been a country-house, with at least a bit of the 
old garden to it, parterres of flowers, lavender, &c, and good sized old- 
fashioned rooms, with smaller ones in corners, to choose according as 
you are few or many, or wish to be roomy or snug. Hazlitt, who loved 
to escape fVom his irritabilities into an inn, has noticed such a one ia 
a charming passage. He is speaking of the delight of reading favorite 

" The last time," he says, ^' I tasted this luxury in its flill perfec- 
tion, was one day after a sultry day's walk between Famham and 
Alton. I was fairly tired out ; I walked into an inn-yard (I think at 
the latter place) ; I was shown by the waiter to what looked at first 
like common out-houses at the other end of it, but they turned out to 
be a suite of rooms, probably a hundred years old — the one I entered 
opened into an old-fashioned garden, embellished with beds of lark- 
spur and a leaden Mercury ; it was wainscoted, and there was a grave- 
looking dark-colored portrait of Charles II. hanging up over the tiled 
chimney-piece. I had Love for Love in my pocket, and began to read ; 
coffee was brought in, in a silver coffee-pot ; the cream, the bread and 
butter, everything was excellent, and the flavor of Congreve*8 style 
prevailed over all. I prolonged the entertainment till a late hour, and 
relished this divine comedy better even than when I used to see it. 
played by Miss Mellon, as Miss Prue ; Bob Palmer, as.Ta^;. and 
Bannister as honest Ben. This circumstance happened just five years 
ago, and it seems like yesterday. If I count my life so, by lustres, it 
will soon glide away; yet I shall not have to repine, if, while it lasts, 
it is enriched by a few such recollections."* f 

The Henley at which Shenstone wrote his lines on an inn was the 
Henley on the road to Stratford-on-Avon. Johnson slept at it one 
night with Boswell, and had quoted a stanza from the lines in the 
course of the. day, when they were dining at an '< excellent inn at 
Chapelhouse." , 

*' We dined," Boswell says, " at an excellent inn at Chapelhouse, 
where he (Johnson) expatiated on the felicity of England in its tavenui 

* Ptesn j;pM&dr,voLi.p.303. • 


and inns, and trinmpbed over the French for not having, in any per- 
fection, the tavern life. ' There is no private, honse,' said he, ' in which 
people can enjoy themselves so well, as at a capital tavern. Let there 
be ever so great plenty of good things, ever so much grandeur, ever 
so much ele^;ance, ever so much desire that everybody should be 
easy, in the nature of things it cannot be \ there must always be some 
degree of care and anxiety. The master of the house is anxious to 
entertain his guests ; the guests are anxious to be agreeable to him ; 
and no man, but a very impudent dog indeed, can as fireely command 
what is in another man's house, as if it were his own. Whereas, at a 
tavern, there is a general freedom from anxiety. You are sure you 
are welcome ; and the more noise you make, the more trouble you 
give, the more good things you call for, the welcomer you are. No 
servants will attend you with the alacrity which waiters do, who are 
incited by the prospect of an immediate reward in proportion as they 
please. No, sir ; there is nothing which has yet been contrived by 
men, by which so much happiness is produced as by a good tavern or 
inn.' He then repeated with great emotion Shenstone's lines : 

'< < Whoever has travell*d life's doll round, 

Where'er his stages may have beeni X 

May sigh to think he still has found 
His warmest welcome at an inn.' "* 

Johnson was so fond of this little poem, that Miss Reynolds (sister 
of Sir Joshua) said she had learnt it by heart fVom hearing him re- 
peat it. Some exclusive admirers of great poetry would see nothing 
in it ; but let them try to write as good a one, and they would dis- 
cover that some portion of the poetical facility was necessary to 
express and modulate even thoughts like th^se. 

TO thee, fair Freedom ! I retire, 
From flattery, cards, and dice, and din ; 
Nor art thou found in mansions higher 
Than the low cot or humble Inn. 

'Tis here with boundless power I reign ; 
And every health which I begin 

* Boswellf Murray*B Edition, voU vi. p. 81. 


Conyertfl dull port to bright champagne ; 
Such freedom crowns it at an Inn. 

I fly from pomp, I fly from plate ! 

I fly from Falsehood's specious grin ! 
Freedom I love and form I hate, 

And choose my lodgbgs at an Inn. 

Here, waiter, take my sordid ore, 

Which lackeys else might hope to win ] 

It buys what courts have not in store, 
It buys me freedom at an Inn. 

Whoe'er has trayelled life's dull round. 
Where'er his stages may have been. 

May sigh to think he still has found 
The warmest welcome at an Inn. 

fm ttMi nf ^un. 

Q&AY appears to us to be tbe best letter-writer in the langnage. 
Others equal him in particular qualities, and surpass him in amount 
of entertainment ; but none are so nearly faultless. Chesterfield wants 
heart, and even his boasted !' delicacy \" Bolingbroke and Pope want 
simplicity ; Cowper is more lively than strong^ ; Shenstone reminds 
yon of too many rainy days, Swift of too many things which he af- 
fected to despise, Qibbon too much of the formalist and the UUSrateur, 
The most amusing of all our letter-writers are Walpole and Lady 
Mary Wortley Montagu ; but though they had abundance of wit, sense, 
and animal spirits, you are not always sure of their veracity. Now, 
" the first quality in a companion," as Sir Williai]|, Temple observes, 
*' is truth ;" and Gray's truth is as manifest as his other good quali- 
ties. He has sincerity, modesty, manliness (in spite of a somewhat 
effeminate body), learning, good-nature, playftilness, a perfect style ; 
and if an air of pensiveness breathes over all, it is only of that re- 
signed and contemplative sort which completes our sympathy with 
the writer. 

Mark what he says in these letters about his litthig in the forest ; 
about Southern ; about lords and their school-days ; about Shaftes- 
bury ; about having a *' garding" of one's own ; about Akenside con^ 
pared with himself; about the Southampton Abbot, the Qrand Duch- 
ess of Tuscany, &c. doc.; and about sunrise — wondering " whether 
anybody ever saw it before," he is so astonished at their not having 
sidd more on the sulyect. 

Qray is the " melancholy Jaques" of English literature, without 
the sullenness or causticity. His melancholy is of the diviner sort of 
Milton and Beaumont, and is always ready to assume a kindly oheep- 



[a FOX-HTJNTER — ^A poet's solitude SOUTHERN THE 


September, 1737. 

I WAS hindered in my last, and so could not give you all 
the trouble I would have done. The description of road 
which your coach-wheels have so often honored, it would be 
needless to give you. Suffice it, that I arrived safe at my 
uncle's, who is a great hunter in imagination. His dogs take 
up every chair in the house, so I am forced to stand at this 
present writing ; and though the gout forbids him galloping 
after them in the field, yet he continues to regale his ears 
and nose with their comfortable noise and stink, f He holds 
me mighty cheap, I perceive, for walking when I should ride, 
and reading when I should hunt. My comfort amidst all 
this is, that I have, at the distance of half a mil6^ through a 
green lane, a forest (the vulgar call it a common), all my 
own ; at least as good as so, for I spy no human thing in it 
but myself. It is a little chaos of mountains and precipices 
— ^mountains, it is true, that do not ascend much above the 

* Walpole and Gray had been school-fellows at Eton ; and, though 
differing greatly in some respects, had tastes alike in others, particii- 
larly a love for romantic Action and Gothic architecture. Their differ- 
ences were found to render them unsuitable as fellow-travellers, when 
they visited Italy ; but they renewed their intercourse at home, and 
continued correspondents as long as Gray lived. 

At the date of the letter before us, Walpole was a youth of twenty, 
residing with his father, Sir Robert, at Haughton ; Gray, twenty-one, 
on a visit to an uncle, at Burnham, in Buckinghamshire. The reader 
will observe the mature manliness of his style. 

-f Some readers of the present day might suppose that coarse hab- 
its are here but coarsely described by the delicate young poet. But 
such language was not considered coarse in the time of Gray. 


clouds ; nor are the declivities quite so amazing as Dover 
cliff ; but just such hills as people who love their necks as 
well as I do may venture to climb ; and crags that give the 
eye as much pleasure as if they were dangerous. Both vale 
and hill are covered with most venerable beeches, and other 
very reverend vegetables,* that, like most other ancient peo- 
ple, are always dreaming out their old stories to the winds : 

" And as they bow their hoary tops, relate 
In murmuring sounds the dark decrees of fate ; 
While visions, as poetic eyes avow, 
Cling to each leaf, and swarm on every bough." 

At the foot of one of these squats me I (U penseroso)^ and 
there I grow to the trunk for a whole morning. The timo- 
rous hare and sportive squirrel gambol around me, like 
Adam in paradise, before he had an Eve ; but I think he did 
not use to read Virgil, as I commonly do there. In this sit- 
uation I often converse with my Horace, aloud too ; that is, 
talk to you ; but I do not remember that I ever heard you 
answer me. I beg pardon for taking all the conversation to 
myself; but it is entirely your own fault. We have old Mr. 
Southernt at a gentleman's house, a little way off, who often 
comes to see us ; he is now seventy-seven years old, and has 
almost wholly lost his memory, but is as agreeable as an old 
man can be ; at least I persuade myself so when I look at 
him, and think of Isabella and Oroonoko. I shall be in 
town in about three weeks. Adieu." 

* " Eeverend vegetable" is a phrase of Steele's for a common-place 
old man. 

f Southern lived nine years longer. When he was a young man, 
he knew Dryden ; and here is Gray, a youth, in company with Dry- 
den's acquaintance. It is always pleasant to observe these links of 





London, May 27th, 1742. 

MINE, you are to know, is a white melancholy, or rather 
leucocholy,t for the most part ; which, though it seldom 
laughs, or dances, nor ever amounts to what one calls joy or 
pleasure, yet is a good easy sort of a state, and ga ne laisse 
que de s^amtiser.X The only fault of it is insipidity ; which 
is apt now and then to give a sort of ennui^ which makes 
one form certain little wishes that signify nothing. Bat 
there is another sort, black indeed, which I have now and 
then felt, that has somewhat in it like TertuUian's rule of 
faith, " credo quia impossibUe est"^ for it believes, nay, is 
sure of everything that is unlikely, so it be but frightfal ; 
and, on the other hand, excludes and shuts its eyes to the 
most possible hopes, and everything that is pleasurable. 
From this, the Lord deliver us ; for none but he and sun- 
shiny weather can do it. In hopes of enjoying this kind of 
weather, I am going into the country for a few weeks, but 
shall be never the nearer any society, so if you have any 

* Son of the Lord Chaooellor of Ireland, by a daughter of Bishop 
Burnet. His tastes were very like Gray's, and he promised to attain 
celebrity, but died of a consumption the year following the dafe of 
this letter, at the age of twenty-six. 

f Melancholy signifying black choler, leucocholy would be white 
choler. Gray pleasantly coins the word for the occasion. 

4: Does nothing but trifle. 

§ / believe because it is impossible. Gray might have added (and 
perhaps he meant to do so by what follows) that Tertullian, who was 
a cruel bigot, held another rule of Mth, equally reasonable, namely, 
/ believe because it is horrible. 


charity yoti will contrive to write. My life is like Harry 
the Fourth's supper of hens: ^^pouletsd la broche, jxndets 
en ragout, poulets en hdchis, poukts en fncasies;* reading 
here, reading there ; nothing but books with different sauces. 
Do not let me lose my dessert then ; for though jthat be read- 
ing too, yet it has a very different flavor. The May seems 
to be come since your invitation ;t and I promise to bask in 
her beams, and dress me in her roses : 

" Et caput in vem& semper habere rosft."^ 

I shall see Mr. and his wife, nay, and his child 

too, for he has got a boy. Is it not odd to consider one's 
contemporaries in the grave light of husband and father? 

There are my Lords and , they are statesmen ; do 

not you remember them dirty boys playing Rt cricket ? As 
for me, I am never a bit the older, nor the bigger, nor the 
wiser than I was then ; no, not for having been beyond sea. 
Pray, how are you % 


[banter of formal excuses and fine exordiums SOUTH- 

Nov. 19, 1764. 

IRECEIYED your letter at Southampton ; and as I would 
wish to treat everybody according to their own rule and 
measure of good breeding, have, against my inclination, 
waited till now before I answered it, purely out of fear and 

* Boast chicken, rag^ooed chicken, hashed chicken, fricaseed 

t West had written an ode to May, addressed to his friend. 

X <* And haye my head foi«T6)r in spriag rosiBB.'^ 

A line in ** Propertiut/* Ub. ill. Y. » 


respect, and an ingenuoos diffidence in my own abilities. If 
jou will not take this as an excuse, accept it at least as a well- 
tamed period, which is always my principal concern.* 

So I proceed to tell you, that my health is much improv- 
ed by the s^a. Not that I drank it, or bathed in it, as the 
common people do ; no I I only walked by it, and looked 
upon it. The climate is remarkably mild, even in October 
and November ; no snow has been seen to lie there for these 
thirty years past ; the myrtles grow in the ground against the 
houses, Guernsey lilies bloom in every window ; the town, 
clean and well-built, surrounded by its old stone walls, with 
their towers and gateways, stands at the point of a peninsula, 
and opens full south to an arm of the sea, which, having form- 
ed two beautiful bays on each hand of it stretches away in 
direct view, till it joins the British Channel. It is skirted 
on either side with gently rising grounds, clothed with thick 
wood ; and directly across its mouth rise the high lands of 
the Isle of Wight at distance, but distinctly seen. In the 
bosom of the woods (concealed from profane eyes) lie hid the 
ruins of Nettley Abbey ; there may be richer and greater 
houses of religion, but the abbot is content with his situation. 
See there, at the top of that hanging meadow, under the shade 
of those old trees that bend into a half-circle about it, he is 
walking slowly (good man !) and bidding his beads for the 
souls of his benefactors, interred in that venerable pile that 
lies beneath him. Beyond it (the meadow still descendmg) 
nods a thicket of oaks that mask the building, and have ex- 
cluded a view too garish and luxuriant for a holy eye ; only 
on either hand they leave an opening to the blue glittering 
sea. Did you not observe how, as that white sail shot by and 
was lost, he turned and crossed himself, to drive the tempter 

* A banter probably of some apologetical formality on the part 


from iiim thai had thrown that distraction in his way ? I 
should tell yon that the ferryman who rowed me, a lusty 
young fellow, told me that he would not for all the world 
pass a night at the Abbey (there were such things seen near 
it), though there was a power of money hid there. From 
thence I went to Salisbury, Wilton, and Stonehenge : but of 
these things I say no more. They will be published at the 
University press. 

P.S. — I must not olose my letter without giving you one 
principal event of my history ; which was, that (in the course 
of my late tour) I set oat one morning before five o'clock, the 
moon shining through a dark and misty autumnal air, and 
got to the sea^oast time enough to be at the sun's levee. I 
saw the ch)udB and dark vapors open gradually to right and 
left, rolling over one another in great smoky wreaths, and the 
tide (as it flowed gently in upon the sands) first whitening, 
then slightly tinged with gold and blue, and all at once a 
little line of insufferable brightness that (before I can write 
these five words) was grown to half an orb, and now to a 
whole one too glorious to be distinctly seen. It is very odd 
it makes no figure on paper ; yet I shall remember it as long 
as the sun, or at least as long as I endure. I wonder whether 
anybody ever saw it before % I hardly believe it 


[a mother SCENERY OF KENT.] 


IT is a long time since, that I heard you were gone in haste 
into Yorkshire on account of your mother's illness ; and 
the same letter informed me that she was recovered, other- 
^e I had then wrote to you only to beg you would take 
care of her, and to inform you that I had discovered a thii^ 



very little known, which is, that in one's whole life one csn 
never have any more than a single mother. Ton may think 
this is obvious, and (what yon call) a trite observation. Too 
are a green gosling ! I was at the same age (very near) as 
wise as you ; and yet I never discovered this (with full evi- 
dence and conviction, I mean) till it was too late. It is thir- 
teen years ago, and seems but as yesterday, and every day I 
live it sinks deeper into my heart. Many a corollary could 
I draw from this axiom for your use (not for my own), but I 
will leave you the merit of doing it for yourself Pray tell 
me how your health is ; I conclude it perfect, as I hear you 
offered yourself as a guide to Mr. Palgrave into the Sierra 
Morena of Yorkshire. For me, I passed the end of May, and 
all June, in Kent, not disagreeably. In the west part of it, 
from every eminence, the eye catches some long reach ^ the 
Thames or Medway, with all their shipping : in the east, the 
sea breaks in upon you, and mixes its white trannent sails, 
and glittering blue expanse, with the deeper and brighter 
green of the woods and com. This sentence h so fine I am 
quite ashamed, but no matter ! Tou must translate it into 
prose. Palgrave, if he heard it, would coi*er his &ce with 
his pudding sleeve.^ I do not tell you of the great and 
small beasts, and creeping things innum^^rable, that I met 
with, because you do not suspect that this urorld is inhabited 
by anything but men, and women, and clergy, and such two- 
legged cattle. Now I am here again, ve^y disconsolate and 
all alone, for Mr. Brown is gone, and the cares of this world 
are coming thick upon me ; you, I hope, are better off, riding 
and walking in the woods of Studley, &{^ &d. I must not 
wish for you here ; besides, I am going to town at Michael 
mas, by no means for amusement. 

* He was a clergyman ; rector of Palgrave and Thrandeston, in 





Pembroke College, June 24th, 1769. 

AND SO you have a garden of your own, and you plant and 
transplant, and are dirty and amused. Are not you 
ashamed of yourself? Why, I have no such thmg, you 
monster ; nor ever shall be either dirty or amused as long as 
I live.* My gardens are in my windows, like those of a 
lodger up three pair of stairs in Petticoat Lane, or Camomile 
Street, and they go to bed regularly under the same roof that 
I do. Dear I how charming it must be to walk out in one's 
own garding^ and sit on a bench in the open air, with a foun- 
tain and leaden statue, and a rolling-stone, and an arbor I 
Have a care of sore throats though, and the agoe. 

However, be it known to you, though I have no garden, 
I have sold my estate,t and got a thousand guineas and 
fourscore pounds a-year for my old aunt, and a twenty-pound 
prize in the lottery, and Lord knows what arrears in the 
treasury, and am a rich fellow enough, go to ; a fellow that 
hath had losses, and one that hath two gowns, and every- 
thing handsome about him ]% and in a few days shall have 
new window-curtains : are you avized of that ? Aye, and a 
new mattress to lie upon. 

* This pleasantry becomes the more charming, when read in con- 
nection with some^previons letters to Nicholls, which were in a strain 
of serious and somewhat remonstrating advice on carelessness in his 
affairs, though full of the most touching kindness. 

t Some houses on the west side of Hand Alley, in Comhill. 

% From Dogberry's speech in Much ado ab(mt Nothi'ngf Act Iv. sc 2. 

W4 PITS LSTfSRa OP €^iUt. 

My Ode* has been rehearsed again and again, and the 
scholars have got scrape by heart. I expect to see it torn 
piecemeal in the North Briton, t before it is born. If you 
will come, yon shall see it, and sing in it amidst a chorns 
from Salisbury and Gloucester music-meeting, great names 
there, and all well versed in Judas Maccabaeus-I I wish it was 
once over, for then I immediately go for a few days to Lon- 
don, and so with Mr. Brown to Aston, though I fear it will 
rain the whole summer, and Skiddaw will be invisible and 
inaccessible to mortals. 

I have got De la Lande's Voyage through Italy in eight 
volumes. He is a member of the Academy of Sciences, and 
pretty good to read. I have read, too, an octavo volume of 
Shenstone's Letters. Poor man ! he was always wishing for 
money, for fame, and other distinctions ; and his whole phi- 
losophy consisted in living against his will in retirement, and 
in a place which his taste had adorned, but which he only 
enjoyed when people of note came to see and commend it 
His correspondence is about nothing else but this place and 
his own writings^ with two or three neighboring clergymen 
who wrote verses too.§ 

* ** On the Installation of the I)al:e of Grafton as OhtOioeUot of &e 
University <^ Cambridge.* 

t A periodical pablication Hew forgottea 

% Handel's Ch^torio of that name. 

^ This is a true view of the weak side of Shenstone's character; 
and Gray, perhaps, confined himself to that side of it for some purpose 
connected with his correspondent. Otherwise Shenstone must inevi- 
tably have reaped great enjoyment from the lovely and surprising 
landscapes he created on his estate, which were the admiration of the 
best jadges, and the site of his own gentle verse-making. Shenstone, 
like most people, was a different man under different phases of health. 
Gray was a warm admirer of the poem in these volumes, 7%e School- 
misiress. He pronounced it <' excellent in its kind, and masterly." 


I have just foand the beginning of 2^ letter, which some- 
body had dropped : I should rather call it first-thoughts for 
the beginning of a letter, for there are many scratches and 
corrections. As I cannot use it myself (haying got a begin- 
ning already of my own), I send it for your use on some 
great occasion. 

« Dear Sir, 

'' After so long silence, the hopes of pardon, and prospect 
of forgiYe»ess, wight seem entirely extinct, or at least very 
remote, was I not truly sensible of your goodness and can- 
dor, which is the only asylum that my negligence can fly to, 
since every apology would prove insufficient to counterbalance 
it, or alleviate my fiftult : how then shall my deficiency pre- 
sume to make so bold an attempt, or be able to suffer the 
hardships of so rough a campaign 1" &c. &c. &c.* 

♦ See note * p. 126. 

Bnaotagts of (^nltinatiog a €ifAt fiit ^irtttns. 


Jonathan Bichardson was a portrait-painter and critic in the time 
of Pope, whom he knew. He was esteemed in his art, and still more 
for his knowledge and admiration of art in others. He wrote treatises 
on Painting, notes on Milton, a poem in Nichols's Collection^ evincing 
his inquiring and amiable turn of mind, called an Address to the Morn- 
ing Star; and he was famous for his industry, early-rising, and the 
affection existing between him and his son. His writings have perhaps 
created more enthusiasm for pictures than those of any other man in 
England. He is not an accomplished writer, like Sir Joshua ; nor has 
he the depth of Hazlitt ; much less any of the transcendental insights 
of the promising critical genius who has lately made his appearance 
among us under the title of the " Oxford Graduate." His style is col- 
loquial, to a degree of slovenliness : and, with the tendencies natural 
perhaps to his art in a professional point of view, he is too much in- 
clined to confound prosperity with success. But he would interest us 
less if he did not pour forth all he thought. Candor, honesty, good- 
ness, vivacity, and a considerable amount of taste and knowledge, 
constitute the charms of his writing. Sir Joshua respected him; 
Pope, who dabbled in painting himself, was attached to him ; Hazlitt 
quoted him with delight. 

The following remarks are on a subject which is yet far too little 
appreciated, but which is destined, we suspect, to play a great and 
delightful part in the universal world of civilization. " Knowledge is 
power ;" but it is not only power to command (which is the sense in 


^hich the axiom is generally taken), it is also power to eqjoy. Every- 
body who knows anything of albything, knows how much that knowl- 
edge adds to the snm of his ordinary satisfkction ; what strength it 
gives him, what ennni and vacuity it saves him. The smallest bota- 
nist or geologist knows it, by the way-side ; the least meteorologist, 
as he gazes at a rack of clouds. Pictures make themselves known at 
once, more or less ; yet nobody, who has not in some measure thought 
on the subject as Richardson here teaches to think, has any concep- 
tion how much is to be got out of a good picture, the more he knows 
of the art, and of nature. He learns to know everything which the 
painter intends ; everything which he intimates ; and thus to discover 
volumes of meaning and entertainment where others see little but a 
colored page. And the more we know of pictures, the mwe we come 
to value engravings, and to know what companions they can be made; 
what little treasures of art we may possess, even in those faint repre- 
sentations, compared with the nothing to be got out of the finest paint- 
ings by the eyes of ignorance. 

And then there is the reflex of Painting itself on Nature ; the 
grateful light Which she throws in her turn on the source of her in- 
spiration ; so that the more we know of objects on canvas, the more 
we learn to know of the objects themselves, and thus become qualified 
to discern pictures in everything, and to be critics of our instructor. 
But Richardson has touched' on this point also, and the reader must 
not be detained from him. We would only beg leave to add, by way 
of individual experience in such matters, without pretending to any 
remarkable insight into them, either natural or acquired, that Mr. 
Hazlitt, whom we had the pleasure of knowing, converted us from a 
wrong admiration of white cottages in landscapes to the right one of 
the honest old red ; that Mr. Haydon (whom we will not call " unfor- 
tunate," even for his end, knowing what pleasure he got out of his 
art in life) was the first, in our youth, to give us an eye to the atti- 
tudes and groups of people in company ; and that we have reason to 
regard the having been conversant with a house full of paintings 
during childhood as one of the blessings of our existence. ^We have 
never since entered a room of that sort without a tendency to hush 
and move softly, as if in the presence of things above the ordinary 
course of nature, of spirits left behind them by great men, looking at 
as with divine eyes, or informing the most beautiful visions of nature 
with art as wonderfoL And we are so. 


WHAT is beautiful and excellent, is naturally adapted to 
please : but all beauties and excellencies are not, natn^ 
rally, seen. Most gentlemen see pictures and drawings as the 
generality of people see the heayens in a clear, starry night ; 
they perceive a sort of beauty there, but such a one as pro- 
duces no great pleasure in the mind ; but when one considers 
the heavenly bodies as other worlds, and that there are an 
infinite number of these in the empire of God (Immensity), 
and worlds which our eyes, assisted by the best glasses, can 
never reach, and so far remote firom the most distant of what 
we see, that these visible ones are as it were our neighbors, 
as the continent of France is to Great Britain ; when one 
considers farther, that as there are inhabitants on this conti- 
nent, though we see them not when we see that^ it is alto- 
gether unreasonable to imagine that those innumerable worlds 
are iminhabtted and desert ; there must be beii^ there, some 
perhaps more, others less noble and excellent than man. 
When one thus views this vast prospect, the mind is other- 
wise affected than before, and feels a delight which common 
notions never can administer. So those who at pres^it can- 
BOt comprdiend there can be such pleasure in a good picture 
or drawing as connoisseurs pretend to find, may learn to see 
the same thing themselves; their eyes being once opened, 
they may be said to obtain a new sense ; and new pleasures 
flow in as often as the objects of that superinduced sight 
present themselves, which (to people of condition especially) 
very frequently happens, or may be procured, whether here 
at home, or in their travels abroad. When a gentleman has 
learned to see the beauties and excellencies that are really 
in good pictures and drawings and which may be learnt by 
conversing with such, and applying himself to the oonsider^^ 
tion of them, he will look upon that with joy which he now 
passes over with very little pleasure, if not with indifferoaoe; 

6^^ a.ftk«rleh) a scrabU^ of ih^ kaad of a great maaier, will 
be oapablA of adminktemg ia him a greater degree <^ plead? 
ure than those wbo. know it not by experience can have any 
conception o£ Seeidee the graceful and noble attitudes, the 
heasitj. of coloes and ft^vxBi and ihe fine effects of light ivod 
ehadowj whicb none sees as a oonnoisseor does, such a one 
enters filrther than any other can do into the beauties of Uie 
inveatiOii, e:!qpffession, and oth^ parts of the work he is am.* 
sidering. He sees strokes of art, eontrivances, expedients, 9 
delieaey and spirit, that other»see not, or very imperfectly^ 

He sees what force of mind the great masters had to 
Qonceiye ideas ; what judgment to see things beautifully, of 
to imagine beanty from what they saw ; and what a power 
their handa wete endued withal, in a few strokes and with 
ease, to show to another what themselves oonceived. 

What is it that gives us pleasure in readbg a history oe 
poem, but that the mind is thereby furnished with a variety 
d images I And what distinguishes some authors, and sets 
ihem aboive the common level, but their knowing how ta 
laiM their subject^ The Trojan or Peleponnesian wara 
would never have beaithou^t of by us, if a Homer or 
Thucydides had not told the stories of them, who knew how 
to do it so as to fill the minds of their readers with great and 
delightful ideas. He who converses with the works of the 
best masters k always reading such admirable authors ; and 
his mind oonsequently, in proportion, entertained and delight^ 
ed with the histories, &blee, eharacters^ ihe ideas of magnifif 
eent buildings, fine prospects, &e. 

And he seea these tilings in those different lights which 
the various manners of thinking of the several masters seta 
them ; he sees them a» they are represented by the eapri- 
eious but vast genius of Leonardo da Vinci ; the fiecoe and 
gigan^ one x)f Michael Angitaf th» dmop and polite ana 


of Raphael ; the poetical fancy of Guido ; the angelical mind 
of Corregio, or Parmegiano ; the haughty, sullen, but accom- 
plished Annibal, the learned Augustine Caracci. 

A connoisseur hath this further advantage, that he not 
only sees beauties in pictures and paintings, which to common 
eyes are invisible ; but he learns by these to see such in na- 
ture, in the exquisite forms and colors, the fine effects of 
lights, and shadows, and reflections, which in her are always 
to be found, and from whence he hath a pleasure which other* 
wise he could never have had,«and which none with untaught 
eyes can possibly discern : he has a constant pleasure of this 
kind even in the most common things, and the most familiar 
to us, so that what people usually look upon with the utmost 
indifference, creates an home-felt delight in his mind. The 
noblest works of Raphael, the most ravishing music of Han- 
del, the most masterly strokes of Milton, touch not people 
who are without discernment. 

So, the beauties themselves of those all-perfect works of 
the great author of nature are not seen but by enlightened 
eyes, that is, those eyes which are taught to see ; to those 
they appear far otherwise than before they were ; so, so far 
otherwise ! that one sees through a glass darkly (through the 
gross medium of ignorance) ; the other ^ that of a connoisseur, 
as when the angel had removed the film from Adam's eyes, 
and purged with euphrasy and rue, the visual nerve, seeth 
beauty divine and human, as far as human may, as we hope 
to see everything, still nearer to its true beauty and perfec- 
tion, in a better state ; when we shall '< see what eye 
hath not seen, neither hath it entered the heart of man to 

By conversing with the works of the best masters, our 
imaginations are impregnated with great and beautiful 
images, which preset themselYes on all occasions in 


reading an author, or ruminating upon some great action, 
ancient or modem ; everything is raised, everything improved 
from what it would have been otherwise. Nay, those lovely 
images with which our minds are thus enriched, arise there 
continually, and give us pleasure, with or without any par- 
ticular application. 

^ What is rare and curious, exclusive of any other consider^ 
ation, we naturally take pleasure in ; because, as variable as 
our circumstances are, there is so much of repetition in life 
that more variety is still desiiable. The works of the great 
masters would thus recommend themselves to us, though 
they had not that transcendent excellency that they have ; 
they are such as are rarely seen ; they are the works of a 
small number of the species in one little country of the world, 
and in a short space of time. But their excellency being put 
into the scale makes the rarity of them justly considerable. 
They are the works of men like whom none are now to be 
found, and when there will be, G-od only knows 1 

" Art et guides, tout est dans les Champs filys^es." 

La Fontaine. 

What the old man Melanthius says of Polygnotus (as he 
is cited by Plutarch in the life of Cimon), may, with a little 
alteration, be applied to these men in general ; it is thus al- 
ready translated: 

" This fkmous painter, at his own expense, 
Gave Athens beauty and magnificence ; 
New life to all the heroes did impart ; 
Embellish'd all the temples with his art ; 
The splendor of the state restor'd again ; 
And so he did oblige both gods and men." 

What still adds to the rarity of the excellent works we 


are speaking of Ib, their number mnst necessarily dinunish 
by sudden accidents, or the slow, but certain injuries of. 

Another pleasure belonging to oonnoissanee is when w^ 
9seA anything particular and curious ; as the first thoughts 
of a master for some remarkable picture ; the original of a 
trork of a great master, the copy of which we have already 
by some other considerable hand ; a drawing of a picture, or 
after an antique very famous, or which is now lost ; or when 
we make some new acquisition upon reasonable terms, chiefly 
when we get for ourselyes something we much desired^ but 
could not hope to be masters of ; when we make some new 
discoyery, something that improyes our knowledge in oonnois- 
sanee or painting, or otherwise ; and abundance of such like 
incidents, and which yery frequently happens to a diligent 

The pleasure that arises from a knowledge of hands is 
not like, or equal to that of the oth^ parts of the business 
of a connoisseur, but neither is this destitute of it. When 
one sees an admirable piece of art, it is part of the connois- 
seur to know to whom to attribute it, and then to know his 
history ; which arises, I hope, from a natural justice m the 
human mind that loyes and desires to pay a little tribute of 
gratitude where it discoyers it to be due to that merit of; 
another which it is actually enjoying. The custom of putr 
ting the author's portrait or life at the beginning of his book, 
is kindly giving us an opportunity of doing this. 

When one is considering a picture or a drawing,* and at 
the same time thinks this was done by hiny who had many 

* The passage here commencing is one enormously long sen- 
tence, continued to the words " these reflections,^ at p. 140. It 
may be supposed, however, to be yery agreeably poured forth in the 
lieat of convemttofi. 


nAstwxijEOBXj endowments of bodj ajod mind, «Ad waa witkaL' 
a yirtnoos man and a fine gentleman in his whole life, and 
itill more at his death, expiring in the arms of one of Uie 
greatest pxinoes of that age, Francis I., king c^ Franca, who 
i0¥«d him as a friend f — another is of him who lived a long 
and happj life beloved of the Emperor Charles Y., and 
m^iaj others of Uie first princes of Europe ;t — when one baa 
another in his hamd, and thinks that thia was done hj one 
1^ so excelled in three arts^ as that any one of them, in th«k 
de^!«ee he possessed them all, had rendered him worthy of 
immortalitj, and who moreover dared to contend with hja 
sovereign ((me of the haughtiest popes that ever was) upc» 
a slight offered to him^ and extricated himself with honor \X 
— ^another is the work of that great self-formed, antbentio 
geniiiS) who was Uie model of supernatural grace ; who alona 
painted heaven^ as surely it is ; and hath represented to ha* 
man weaknesa the angelic nature ; this, too, by inspiration I 
not having had any master, or none but whom he left quite 
out of sight in the earliest progresses of his divine pencil ; he 
even never saw the works of other great masters^ having always 
confined binr^^tpJf to his native Lombardy, except otie single 
one of Raphael, and a great one indeed that was, his St. Ce* 
cilia when brought to Bologna ; and then, after considering 
it with long attention^ and the admiradon it deserved, he had 
the spirit (and he had a right to that spirit) to say, '^ Well, I 
am a painter, too ;"^ he was so little known to the rost of 
Italy, that he passed till very lately, in the o^junion of the 
world, for a low, poor, indigent creature^ &om the HHnforma- 
tion or malice of Yasari, always pr^udiced agamst the Lom« 
bard painters, when his charaotar was rescued ftovk its affects 
ed obscurity, and his noble birtii aind eonneetione^ ai4^ 8f leor 

* Lepuardo da Vinci f Titiaiu 

% Michael Azigelo. % Oorregio. 


did wealth, asserted bojond all possibility and dispute by the 
indefatigable industry of Ludiovico Antonio David, a Milan- 
ese painter, and published at Bologna ; — another we shall 
consider as the work of him who restored painting when it 
was almost sunk ; of him whom his art made honorable ; but 
who neglecting and despising greatness with a sort of cynical 
pride, was treated suitably to the figure he gave himself, not 
to his intrinsic merit ; which not having philosophy enough 
to bear, it broke his heart '* another is performed by one, 
who (on the contrary) was a fine gentleman, and of great 
magnificence, and was much honored by his own and foreign 
princes ; who was a courtier, a statesman, and a painter ; and 
so much all these, that when he acted in either character, 
that seemed to be his business, and the others his diversion ;t 
— ^when one thus reflects, besides the pleasure arising from 
the beauties and excellencies of the work, the fine ideas it 
gives us of natural things, the noble way of thinking one finds 
in it, and the pleasing thoughts it may suggest to us, an ad- 
ditional pleasure results from these reflections. 

But, oh I the pleasure ! when a connoisseur and lover of 
art has before him a picture or drawing, of which he can say, 
this is the hand, these the thoughts of him who was one of 
the politest, best-natured gentlemen that ever was ; who was 
beloved and assisted by the greatest wits, and the greatest 
men then at Bome, at a time when politeness and all those 
arts which make life taste truly agreeable, were carried to a 
greater height than at any period since the reign of Augus- 
tus : of him who lived in great fame, honor, and magnificence, 
and died universally lamented ; and even missed a cardinaPs 
hat only by dying a few months too soon ; but was, above 
all, highly esteemed and favored by two popes, the only ones 

* Caiavaggiol f Bubens. 


who filled the ohair of St. Peter in his time ;-— one (in short) 
who could have been a Leonardo, a Michael Angelo, a Ti- 
tian, a Corregio, a Parmegiano, an Annibal, a Rubens, or any 
other when he pleased, but none of them could ever have 
been a Raphael 

^h n s Sistast ^nuptt of (ftos (tolUgt. 

This poem has been noticed in onr preface, and in the introduc- 
tion to the Long Story. It is fUll of thought, tenderness, and music, 
and should make the writer beloved by all persons of reflection, es- 
pecially those who know what it is to risit the scenes of their school- 
days. They may not all regard them in the same melancholy light ; 
but the melancholy light will cross them, and then Gray's lines will 
fall in upon the recollection, at once like a bitter and a balm. 

TE distant spires, ye antique towers, 
That crown the watery glade, 
Where grateful science still adores 

Her Henry^s holy shade ; 
And ye that from the stately brow 
Of Windsor^s heights th' expanse below 

Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey, 
Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among 
Wanders the hoary Thames along 

His silver-winding way. 

Ah, happy hills, ah, pleasing shade. 
Ah, fields beloved in vain, 


Where once my careless childhood strayd, 

A stranger yet to pam ? 
I feel the gales that from ye blow 
A momentary bliss bestow, 

As waving fresh their gladsom;e wing 
My weary soul tbey seem to soothe, 
And, redolent of joy and youth. 

To breathe a second spring. 

Say, father Thames, lor thou hast s^en 

Full many a sprightly race. 
Disporting on thy margent green, 

The paths of pleasure trace, 
Who foremost now delight to cleave 
With pliant arm thy glassy wave 7 

The captive linnet which enthrall ? 
What idle progeny succeed 
To chase ^ rolling circle's speed, 

Or urge the flying ball ? 

While some, on earnest bufidness bent. 

Their murmuring labors ply 
'Gainst graver hours, that bring oonstromt 

To sweeten liberty, 
Some bold adventurers disdain 
The limits of their little reign, 

And unknown regions dare descry ; 
Still as they run they look behind, 
They hear a voice in every wind, 

And snatch a fearful joy. 

G-ay hope is theirs, by fancy fed, 
Less pleasing idien posaest \ 


The tear forgot as soon as shed, 

The suDshine of the breast : 
Theirs, buxom health of rosy hue, 
Wild wit, invention ever new. 

And lively cheer, of vigor born ; 
The thoughtless day, the easy night, 
The spirits pure, the slumbers light, 

That fly th' approach of mom. 

Alas, regardless of their doom, 

The little victims play ! 
No sense have they of ills to come. 

Nor care beyond to-day : 
Yet see how all around them wait 
The ministers of human fate. 

And black misfortune's baleful train ; 
Ah, show them where in ambush stand, 
To seize their prey, the murderous band I 

Ah, tell them they are men 1 

These shall the fury passions tear, 

The vultures of the mind, 
Disdainful anger, pallid fear, 
^ And shame that skulks behind ; 
Or pining love shall waste their youth, 
Or jealousy, with rankling tooth. 

That inly gnaws the secret heart ; 
And envy wan, and faded care, 
Grim-visag'd comfortless despair. 

And sorrow's piercing dart. 

Ambition this shall tempt to rise, 
Then whirl the wretch from high, 


To bitter scorn a sacrifice, 

And grinning infamy ; 
The stings of falsehood those shall try, 
And hard unkindness' altered eye, 

That mocks the tear it forc'd to flow ; 
And keen remorse, with blood defil'd, 
And moody madness laughing wild 

Amidst severest woe. 

Lo, in the vale of years beneath 

A grisly troop are seen, 
The painful family of death, 

More hideous than their queen ; 
This racks the joints, this fires the veins. 
That every laboring sinew strains. 

Those in tho deeper vitals rage : 
Lo, poverty, to fill the band. 
That numbs the soul with icy hand. 

And slow consuming age. 

To each his sufFerings ; all are men, 

Condemned alike to groan ; 
The tender for another's pain. 

The unfeeling for his own. 
Yet, ah ! why should they know their fate I 
Since sorrow never comes too late. 

And happiness too swiftly flies : 
Thought would destroy their paradise. — 
No more. Where ignorance is bliss, 

Tis folly to be wise. 

<a f wg i^tinr. 

The Long Story is so entitied in depreoatioo of any tedium which 
the reader might experience in perusing a personal adventure of the 
author's who was too sensitive on such points. He pleasantly pre- 
tends that he has omitted five hundred stanzas. The occasion of the 
poem was a visit paid him by two ladies, who did him the honor of 
being their own introducera. Gray was at the house of his aunt, in 
his native village of Stoke Po§ei8, near Windsor. His mother was 
there also. The Viscoimtese Gobbam,* who possesaed the mansion- 
house of the place, wished to make the poet's acquaintance^ The la- 
dies in question undertook to break the ice for her. Not finding him 
at home, they left a card^ iatimating that they came to tell hiori of the 
good health of a Lady Brown, a friend of his. 8hy and sequestered 
as he was, the poet returned the visit ; and he takes the opportunity 
of describing the house, and complimenting its inmates. 

Walpole said of Oray, that, however weH he mijgfat write in moods 
altogether seHoUy his resil ibrte waa pleasaatry. Undoubtedily Oray's 
pleasantry is of a more original cast tbaj;^ his sevioosnesa ; less indebt- 
ed to that of his predecessors. Yet there is reason to believe that 
every thought which he transferred to paper had passed through his 
own mind, though his love of the writings of others too often induced 
him to Express it in their words. Half his verses are centos ; and yet 
we feel them to be rather sympathies than echoes. His Ode on the 
Prospect of Eton College^ and his Elegy in a Country Churchyard, are 
the regrets of all his fellow-mortals, and of himself Gray was a 
scholarly, thoughtful, affectionate man ; a little effeminate in his hab- 

* Sister of Pope^a Lord Cobham, and sabBequently Countess Temple. 

ALONG BtOkt, Hi 

its, owing to a feeble tomflttttioii ; bat matdjr fai his jtidg^dtaHil, and 
superior to every kind of sophistry and meanness. 

Gray's pleasantry came to him through his melancholy, assisted by 
the general delicacy of his perceptions, and his wiUingness to be 
pleased. Though a little too cautious of committing his dignity, he 
was not one of those who " take a calamity for an affront." He was 
willing to give and to receive pleasure, and this is a disposition which 
Nature is scire to reward. In th« hong Story we sbe him hesitating 
at first whether he should go to the " great house." He was not only 
loth to be disturbed in his 8e<{aestered habits j he was jealous of what 
might be thought of his humble independence, and his footing as a 
"gentleman." (He was the son of a scrivener.) But good^nature 
prevails, not unaccOia]^ani6d by a willingness to find himself among 
ladies of rank and elegance; and though he mighl as "w^U have 
dropped the circumstance of his secreting himself, he has made a 
charming picture both of tho intefview of the ladies with hii nlother 
and aunt (whom he pretends they pinched and ''.runuxiaged" like 
fairies), and of the great Elizabethan house, with its old associa- 
tions, — things in which he delighted ; for he was an antiquary with all 
the zest of a poet ^he whde poem is fhll of pictnresqueness, fancy, 
and wit. 

IN Britain's isle, no matter where, 
An ancient pile of building stands ; 
The Huntingdons and Hattons there 
Emplo/d the powier of fairy handa 

To raise tibe ceiling's fretted height, 

Each panel in nchieyementB clothing, 
Rich windows that exclude the li^ht, 

And passages that lead to nothing.* 

Full oft within the spacious walls, 
When he had fifty winters o'er him, 

* A line that has become a ikvorite qtttytation n^h Critics, 68* 
pecially as applied to passages in music. 



My grave Lord-Keeper led the brawls ;• 
The seal and maces danced before him. 

His bushy beard and shoe-strings green, 
His high-crown'd hat and satin doublet, 

Mov'd the stout heart of England's Queen, 

Though Pope and Spaniard could not trouble it 


What, in the very first beginning? 

Shame of the versifying tribe I 
Tour history whither are you Bpinning? 

Can you do nothing but describe 1 

A house there is (and that's enough) 

From whence one fatal morning issues 
A brace of warriors, not in buff, 

But rustling in their silks and tissues. 

The firstf came cap-d-pie from France, 

Her conquering destiny fulfilling. 
Whom meaner beauties eye askance. 

And vainly ape her art of killing. 

* The brawl (brarUe) was a fashionable dance. The Lord Keeper 
is Sir Christopher Hatton, a handsome man, who is said to have danced 
himself into the office. It is unquestionable that he made way some- 
how into the heart of Elizabeth. Dancing, however, appears to have 
been so much admired by this great queen, that another and graver 
lawyer, Sir John Davies, no mean philosophical poet, who was also 
one of her most devoted panegyrists, divided his leisare thoughts be- 
tween metrical treatises on the Art of Dancing and on the Immortality 
of the Sovl. Biographers, by the way, tell us, that Hatton never 
possessed a house at Stoke Pogeis. Gray, however, says he did \ and 
there he is in consequence, living forever. 

t Lady Schaub. 


The other Amazon* kind heaVn 

Had arm'd with spirit, wit, and satire ; 

But Cobham had the polish giv'n, 

And tipp'd her arrows with good-nature. 

To celebrate lier eyes, her air — 

Coarse panegyrics would but tease her : 

Melissa is her nom de gtierre ; 

Alas ! who would not wish to please her % 

With bonnet blue, and capuchin, 

And aprons long, they hid their armor, 

And yeil'd their weapons bright and keen 
In pity to the country farmer.* 

Tame in the shape of Mr. P 1 

(By this time all the parish know it) 
Had told that thereabouts there lurk'd 

A wicked imp they call'd a poet,t 

Who prowl'd the country far and near. 
Bewitched the children of the peasants, 

Dry^d up the cows and lam'd the deer, 

And sucked the eggs and kilPd the pheasants. 

My Lady, heard their joint petition, 

Swore, by her coronet and ermine, 
She'd issue out her high commission 

To rid the manor of such vermin. 

* Miss Harriett Speed. She was a descendant of the historian, 
and became the wife of the Sardinian ambassador, the Count de Veri. 

f Mr. P was a Mr. Purt or Purkt. He is said to have been 

displeased with this allusion, — Mason thinks unreasonably ; but no- 
body likes to be thought a gossip. Mason knew that Gray was a 
good-natured man; but of this, Mr. P. might not have been so sure.^ 


The heroines undertook tlie task; 

Thro* laneB unkno^m, o'er stiles they ventur'd, 
Kapp'd at the door, nor staj'd to ask, 

But bounoe into the parlor entered. 

The trembling family they daunt ; 

They flirt, they sing, they laugh, they tattle ; 
Bummage his mother, pinch his aunt, 

And up stairs in a whirlwind rattle. 

Each hole and cupboatd they explore, 
Each creek and cranny of his chambet) 

Run hurry-skurty round the floot, 
And o'er the b^d and tester clamber; 

Into the drawers and qhina pry, 

Papers and books, a huge imbroglio ; 

Under a tea-cup he might lie. 

Or creas'd, like dogs-ears, in a folio. 

On the first marching of the troops, 
The Muses, hopeless of his pardon. 

Conveyed him underneath their hoops 
To a small closet in the garden. 

So Rumor says (who will, believe) ; 

But that they left the door ajar. 
Where safe, and laughing in his sleeve, 

He heard the distant din of war. 

Short was his joy ; he little knew 

The power of magic was no fable ; 
Out of the window whisk they flew, 
.. .:B»I: Wt a (sipell i^on the tftU?. 


The words too eager to unriddle, 

The poet felt a strange disorder ; 
Transparent bird-lime formed the middle, 

And chains invisible the border. 

So cunning was the apparatus, 

The powerful pot-hooks did so move him, 

That will-he, nill-he, to the great house 
He went as if the devil drove him. 

Yet on his way (no sign of grace. 

For folks in fear are apt to pray) 
To Phoebus he preferred his case. 

And begg'd his aid that dreadful day. 

The godhead would have back'd his quarrel ; 

But, with a blush, on recollection, 
Own'd that his quiver and his laurel 

'Gainst four such eyes were no protection. 

The court was set, the culprit there ; 

Forth from their gloomy mansion creeping 
The Lady Janes and Joans repair. 

And from the gallery stand peeping : 

Such as in silence of the night 

Come (sweep) along some winding entry 

(Styack* has often seen the sight), 
Or at the chapel-door stand sentry ; 

In peaked hoods and mantles tarnish'd. 

Sour visages enough to scare ye, 
High dames of honor once that gamish'd 

The drawing-room of fierce Queen Mary ! 

* The housekeeper. 


The peeress comes ; the audience stare, 
And doff their hats with due submission ; 

She curt'sies, as she takes her chair, 
To all the people of condition. 

The bard with many an artful fib 

Had in imagination fenc'd him, 
Disproved the arguments of Squib,* 

And all that Groomf could urge against him ; 

But soon his rhetoric forsook him. 
When he the solemn hall had seen ; 

A sudden ^\r of ague shook him — 
He stood as mute as poor Maoleane4 

Tet something he was heard to mutter 
" How in the park, beneath an old tree, 

Without design to hurt the butter, 
Or any malice to the poultry. 

He once or twice had penn'd a sonnet, 
Tet hop'd that he might save his bacon ; 

Numbers would give their oath upon it, 
He ne*er was for a conj'rer taken." 

The ghostly prudes with hagged face 
Already had condemned the sinner ; 

My Lady rose, and with a grace — 

She smil'd, and bid him come to dinner. 

" Jesu Maria ! Madam Bridget, 
Why what can the Viscountess mean ?" 

* The groom of the cliamber. t The steward. 

% A &mou8 highwayman who had just been eiLecuted. 


Gry'd the square hoods in woful fidget ; 
<< The times are altered, quite and clean : 

" Decorum*s tum'd to mere civility I 

Her air and all her manners show it. 
Commend me to her affability ! 

Speak to a commoner and poet !" 

{Here 500 Stanzas are lostJ] 

And so God save our noble King, 

And guard us from long-winded lubbers, 

That to eternity would sing, 
And keep my lady from her rubbers. 

lit Hsgtr h €mxlt^. 

FROM Addison's papers in the " spectator." 

Sir Roger de Coverlet »s one of those truthfU types of charac- 
ter, which, though created by the mind of Bian, yet, by the ordination 
of Nature herself (for Nature includes art among her works), outlasts 
the successive generations of flesh and blood which it represents. 
The individuals perish, and leave no memorial ; nay, we hardly care 
to know them while living. We might find them tiresome. We feel 
that Nature has done well in making them ; we are grateful for the 
race ; especially on behalf of others, and of the poor ; but we do not 
particularly see the value of their society ; when, lo ! in steps one of 
Nature's imitators— called men of genius — and, by the mere fact of 
producing a likeness of the species to the mind's eye, enchants us for- 
ever both with it and himself. A little philosophy may easily explain 
this ; but perhaps a little more may still leave it among the most in- 
teresting of mysteries. 

We have said a word elsewhere (see Gradations of Clubs) respect- 
ing the first invention of Sir Roger by Steele, and the compatibility 
of his early fopi)eries with a genuine simplicity. But unquestionably 
Addison took up the invention of Steele, and enriched and completed 
it in a way that left the invention itself at a distance. The whole of 
the following papers are from his exquisite pen. They render com- 
ment sui)erfiuous. One has nothing to do but repeat passages, and 
admire them. 


HAVING often received an inyitation from my friend Sir 
Roger de Coverlej to pass away a month with him in 
the country, I last week accompanied him thither, and am 


BelUed with him for some time at higr oouDtry^bovse, where I 
intend to form seyeral of my ensuing specolations. Sir Roger, 
who is Tery well aeqmainted with my humor, lets me rise and 
go to bed when I please, dine at his own table or in my own 
chamber as I think fit, sit still and say nothing without bid- 
ding me be merry. When the gentlemen of ^e oomEitry 
eome to see him, he oidy shows me at a distances As I have 
been walking in his^ fields I haye obs^yed them stealing a 
sight of me oyer a hedge, and haye heard the kiught desir- 
ing them not to let me see l^^n, for that I hated to be 
stared at. 

I am the more at ease in Sir Eoger'ff family, because it 
consists of sober and staid persons ; for, as the knight is the 
best master in the world, he seldom changes bis seryants ; 
and as he is beloyed by all about, his seryants neyer care 
for leaying him ; by this means his domestics are all in years, 
and grown old with their master. Ton would take his yalet- 
de-chambre for his brother ; his batler is gray-headed, his 
groom is one of the grayest men that I haye eyer seen, and 
his coachman has the looks of a priyy-counoillor. Ton see 
tiie goodness of the master eyen in the old house-dog, smd in 
a gray pad that is kept in the slable with great care and ten- 
derness, out of regard for his past seryices, though he has been 
useless for seyeral years. 

I could not but obserye, with a great deal of pleaflure^ the 
joy that appeared in the countenances of these ancient do- 
mestics upon my friend's arriyal at his country-seat. Some 
of them could not refrain from tears at the sight of their old 
master ; eyery one of them pressed forward to do something 
for him, and seemed discouraged if they were not employed. 
At the same time, the good old knight, with a mixture of a 
father and the master of a family, tempered the inquiries 
after his own aiiurs with seyerdl kind qiiestioiw about them- 


selves. This humanity and good-nature engages everybody 
to him, so that when he is pleasant upon any of them, all his 
family are in good-humor, and none so much as the person he 
diverts himself with. On the contrary, if he coughs, or be- 
trays any infirmity of old age, it is easy for a stander-by to 
observe a secret concern in the looks of all his servants. 

My worthy friend has put me under the particular care 
of his butler, who is a very prudent man, and, as weU as the 
rest of his fellow-servants, wonderfully desirous of pleasing 
me, because they have often heard their master talk of me as 
his particular friend. 

My chief companion, when Sir Boger is diverting himself 
in the woods or the fields, is a very venerable man who is 
ever with Sir Koger, and has lived at his house in the nature 
of a chaplain above thirty years. This gentleman is a per- 
son of good sense and some learning ; of a very regular life 
and obligmg conversation : he heartily loves Sir Boger, and 
knows that he is very much in the old knight's esteem, so 
that he lives in the f&mily rather as a relation than as a de- 

I have observed in several of my papers, that my friend 
Sir Koger, amidst all his good qualities, is something of an 
humorist ; and that his virtues, as well as imperfections, are, 
as it were, tinged by a certain extravagance which makes 
them particularly his^ and distinguishes them from those of 
other men. This oast of mind, as it is generally very inno- 
cent in itself, so it renders his conversation highly agreeable, 
and more delightful than the same degree of sense and virtue 
would appear in their ordinary colors. As I was walking with 
him last night, he asked me how I liked the good man I have 
just now mentioned 1 And without staying for an answer told 
me, '^ That he was afraid of being insulted with Latin and 
Greek at his own table ; for which reason be desired a par- 


ticular friend of his at the University to find liim out « 
clergjrman rather of plain sense than much learning ; of a 
good aspect, a clear voice, a sociable temper, and, if possible, 
a nian that understood a little of backgammon. My friend," 
says Sir Roger, ^^ found me out this gentleman, who, besides 
the endowments required of him, is, they tell me, a good 
scholar, though he does not show it. I have given him the 
parsonage of the parish ; and, because I know his value, have 
settled upon him a good annuity for life. If he outlives me, 
he shall find that he was higher in my esteem than perhaps 
he thinks he is. He has now been with me thirty years, and 
though he*does not know I have taken notice of it, has never 
in all that time asked anything of me for himself, though he is 
every day solicitiDg me for something in behalf of one or other 
of my tenants his parishioners. There has not been a law-suit 
in the parish since he has lived among them : if any dispute 
arises, they apply themselves to him for the decision ; if they do 
not acquiesce in his judgment, which I think never happened 
above once or twice at most, they appeal to me. At his first 
settling with me, I made him a present of all the good sermons 
that have been printed in English, and only begged of him, 
that every Sunday he would pronounce one of them in the 
pulpit. Accordingly, he has digested them into such a series, 
that they follow one another naturally, and make a continued 
series of practical divinity." 

As Sir Roger was going on in his story, the gentleman 
we were talking of came up to us ; and upon the knight 
asking him who preached to-morrow (for it was Saturday 
night), told us the Bishop of St. Asaph* in the morning, and 
Dr. South in the afternoon. He then showed us his list of 
preachers for the year, where I saw, with a great deal of 
pleasure, Archbishop Tillotson, Bishop Saunderson, Dr. Bar- 

* Pr. Fleetwood, afterwards Bishop of £ly. 



tow, Dr. Galamy, with several living authors who have pcil>- 
lished discourses of practical divinity. I no sooner saw this 
venerable man in the pulpit, but I very much approved of my 
friend's insisting upon the qualifications of a good aspect and 
a clear voice ; for I was so charmed with the gracefulness of 
his figure and delivery, as well as with the discourses he pro- 
nounced, that I think I never passed any time more to my 
satisfiftotioQ. A s^mon repeated after this manner, is like 
the composition of a poet in the mouth of a graceful actor. 

I could heartily wish that more of our country clergy 
would fi>llow this example ; and, instead of wasting their 
spirits in laborious compositions of their own, wodld endeav- 
or alter a handsome eloeuti(», and all those other talents 
that are proper to enforee what has been penned by greater 
masters. This would not only be more easy to themselves^ 
but more edifying to the people. 



I AM always very well pleased with a country Sunday, and 
tiiink, if keeping holy the seventh day were only a human 
institution^ it would be the best method that could have been 
thought of for the polishing and civilizing of mankind. It 
is certain the country pec^le would soon degenerate into a 
kind of savages and barbarians^ were there not sueh frequent 
returns of a stated time, in which the whole village meet to- 
gether with their best faces, and in their cleanliest habits^ 
to converse with one another upon indifferent subjects, hear 
their duties explained to them^ and join together in adora- 
Uon of the Supreme Being. Sunday clears away the rust 
of the whole week^ not only a^ it re&eshes in their nunds 


^ notions of r^gion^ but as< it puter both sexies xxpcm ap- 
pearing in their most agreeable forms, and exerting all sooli 
qualities as are apt to give them a figure in the eje of the 
village. A coimtry fellow distinguishes himself as mnch in 
the churchyard as a citizen does upon 'Change, the whole 
parish politics being generally discussed there, either after 
sermon or before the bell rings. 

My friend Sir Koger, being a good church-man, has beau* 
tified the inside of his church with several texts of his own 
(loosing : he has likewise given a handsome pulpit-cloth, and 
railed in the communion-table at his own expense; He has 
often told me, that at his coming to his estate he found his 
parishioners very irregular ; and that, in order to make them 
kneel and join in the responses, he gave every one of them 
a hassock and a common-prayer book ; and at the same time 
employed an itinerant singing-master, who goes about the 
country for that purpose, to instruct them rightly in the 
tunes of the psalms ; upon which they now very much value 
themselves, and outdo most of the country churches that I 
have ever heard. 

As Sir Roger is landlord to the whole congregation, he 
keeps them in very good order, and will suffer nobody to 
sleep in it besides himself ; for if by chance he has been sur-^ 
prised into a short nap at sermon, upon recovering out of it 
he stands up and looks about him, and if he sees anybody 
else nodding, either wakes them himself or sends his servants 
to them. Several other of the old knight's particularities 
break out upon these occasions ; sometimes he will be length- 
ening out a verse in the singing-psalms, half a minute affeer 
the rest of the congregation have done with it ; sometimes, 
when he is pleased with the matter of his devotion, he pro- 
nounces Amen three or four times to the same prayer ; and 
sometimes stands up when everybody else is on their knees, 



to count the congregation, or see if any of his tenants are 

I was yesterday very mnch surprised to hear my old 
friend, in the midst of the service, calling out to one John 
Matthews to mind what he was about, and not disturb the 
congregation. This John Matthews, it seems, is remarkable 
for being an idle fellow, and at that time was kicking his 
heels for his diversion. This authority of the knight, though 
exerted in that odd manner which accompanies him in all 
circumstances of life, has a very good e£fect upon the parish, 
who are not polite enough to see anything ridiculous in his 
behavior ; besides that the general good sense and worthi- 
ness of his character makes his friends observe these little 
singularities as foils that rather set o£f than blemish his good 

As soon as the sermon is finished, nobody presumes to 
stir till Sir Koger is gone out of the church. The knight 
walks down from his seat in the chancel between a double 
row of his tenants, that stand bowing to him on each side, 
and every now and then inquires how such an one's wife, or 
mother, or son, or father do, whom he does not see at church ; 
which is understood as a secret reprimand to the person that 
is absent. 

The chaplain has often told me, that upon a catechizing 
day, when Sir Roger has been pleased with a boy that an- 
swers well, he has ordered a bible to be given him next day 
for his encouragement ; and sometimes accompanies it with 
a flitch of bacon to his mother. Sir Eoger has likewise 
added five pounds a-year to the clerk's place : and that he 
may encourage the young fellows to make themselves per- 
fect in the church-service, has promised, upon the death of 
the present incumbent, who is very old, to bestow it accord- 
ing to merit. 


The fair understanding between Sir Boger and his chap- 
lain, and their mutual concurrence in doing good, is the 
more remarkable, because the very next village is famous 
for the differences and contentions that rise between the par- 
son and the squire, who live in a perpetual state of war. 
The parson is always preaching at the squire, and the squire, 
to be revenged on the parson, never comes to church. The 
squire has made all his tenants atheists and tithe-stealers ; 
while the parson instructs them every Sunday in the dignity 
of his order, and insinuates to them, in almost every sermon, 
that he is a better man than his patron. In short, matters 
are come to such an extremity, that the squire has not said 
his prayers either in public or private this half-year ; and 
that the parson threatens him, if he does not mend his man- 
ners, to pray for him in the face of the whole congregation. 

Feuds of this nature, though too frequent in the country, 
are very fatal to the ordinary people ; who are so used to be 
dazzled with riches, that they pay as much deference to the 
understanding of a man of an estate, as of a man of learning ; 
and are very hardly brought to regard any truth, how impor- 
tant soever it may be, that is preached to them, when they 
know there are several men of five hundred a-year who do 
not believe it. 


AS I was yesterday riding out in the fields with my friend 
Sir Roger, we saw at a little distance from us a troop of 
gipsies. Upon the first discovery of them, my friend was in 
some doubt whether he should not exert the justice of the 
peace upon such a band of lawless vagrants, but not having 
his clerk with him, wbo is a necessary counsellor on these oc- 


easioDB, and fearing that his poultry might fare the worse for 
it, he let the thought drop ; but, at the same time, gaye me 
a particular account of the mischief they do in the country, 
in stealing people^s goods and spoiling their servants. " If a 
stray piece of linen hangs on the hedge," says Sir Roger, 
^ they are mure to have it ; if the hog loses his way in the 
field, it is ten to one but he becomes their prey ; our geese 
cannot liye in peace for them ; if a man prosecutes them with 
severity, his hen-roost is sure to pay for it : they generally 
straggle into these parts about this time of the year ; and set 
^e heads of our servant-maids so agog for husbands, that we 
do not expect to have any business done as it ^ould be 
whilst they are in the country. I have an honest dairy-maid 
who crosses their hands with a piece of silver every summer, 
and never fails being promised the handsomest young fellow 
in the parish for her pains. Your friend the butler has been 
fool enough to be seduced by them, and although he is sure 
to lose a knife, a fork, or a spoon every time his fortune is 
told him, generally shuts himself up in the pantry with an old 
gipsy for about half an hour once in a twelvemonth. Sweet- 
hearts are the things they live upon, which they bestow very 
plentifully upon all those that apply themselves to them. You 
see now and then some handsome jades amongst them ; the 
sluts have very often white teeth and black eyes." 

Sir Roger observing that I listened with great attention 
to his account of a people who were so entirely new to me, 
told me, that if I would, they should tell us our fortunes. 
As I was very well pleased with the knight's proposal, we 
rid up and communicated our hands to them. A Cassandra 
of the crew, after having examined my lines very diligently, 
told me, that I loved a pretty maid in a comer, that I was 
a good woman's man, with some other particulars, which I 
do not think proper to relate. My friend Sir Roger alights 


ed £rom ye liovse, and exposed his palm to two or three that 
stood by him; thej crumpled it into all shapesi, and dili- 
gentlj softDDed every wrinkle that could be made in it ; 
when one of them, who was older and move sun-burnt than 
the rest; told bina^ thai he had a widow in his line of life : 
upon which the bright cried, ^' GU>^ go«, you are an idle bag- 
gage ;" and at the same time smiled upon me. The gipsy, 
finding he was not displeased in his heart, told him, after a 
farther inquiry into his hand, that his tme-loYO was constant, 
and that she should dream of him to-night ; my old fiientL 
cried ^sh, and bid her go on. The gipsy told him that he 
was a bachelor, but would not be so long ; and that he was 
dearer to soznebody than he thought : the knight still repeat- 
ed " she was ui idle baggage," and bid her go on. ^' Ah, 
master," says the gipsy, '^ that roguish leer of yours makes a 
pretty womiui's heart ache ; you han't that simper about the 
mouth for no^img." The uncouth gibberish with which all 
this was uttered, like the darkness of an oracle, made us more 
attentire to it. To be short, the knight left the money with 
her that he had crossed her hand with, and got up again on 
his horse. 

As we were riding away. Sir Roger told me, that he knew 
several sensiUe people who belieyed these gipsies now and 
then foretold very strange things ; and for half an hour to* 
gether appeared more jocund than ordinary. In the height 
of his good-humor, meeting a oemmon beggar on the road 
who was no conjurer, as he w^it to reliere him he found his 
pocket was picked ; that being a kiiid of Palmistry at which 
this race of yermin are very dexterous 

I might here entertain my reader with historical remarks 
on this idle profligate people, who infest all the countries of 
Europe, and live in the midst of goyemments in a kind of 
Gominottwealth, bjibemselyed* &it instead of entering into 


observations of this nature, I shall fill the remaining part of 
my paper with a story which is still &esh in Holland, and 
was printed in one of our monthly accounts, about twenty 
years ago. ^ As the Trekschuyt or Hackney-boat which car- 
ries passengers from Leyden to Amsterdam, was putting off, 
a boy running along the side of the canal desired to be taken 
in, which the master refused, because the lad had not quite 
money enough to pay his fare. An eminent merchant, being 
pleased with the looks of the boy, and secretly touched with 
compassion towards him, paid the money for him, and order- 
ed him to be taken on board. Upon talking with him after- 
wards, he found that he could speak readily in three or four 
languages, and learned upon further examination that he had 
been stolen away when he was a child by a gipsy, and had 
rambled ever since with a gang of those strollers up and 
down several parts of Europe. It happened that the mer- 
chant, whose heart seems to have inclined towards the boy 
by a secret kind of instinct, had himself lost a child some 
years before. The parents, after a long search for him, gave 
him for drowned in one of the canals with which that country 
abounds ; and the mother was so afflicted at the loss of a fine 
boy, who was her only son, that she died for grief of it 
Upon laying together all particulars, and examining the sev- 
eral moles and marks by which the mother used to describe 
the child when he was first missing, the boy proved to be the 
son of the merchant whose heart had so unaccountably melt- 
ed at the sight of him. The lad was very well pleased to find a 
father who was so rich, and likely to leave him a good estate ; 
the father, on the other hand, was not a little delighted to 
see a son return to him, whom he had given for lost, with 
such a strength of constitution, sharpness of understanding, 
and skill in languages." Here the printed story leaves off; 
but if I may give credit to reports, our linguist, having re- 


oeiyed such extraordinary rudiments towards a good educa- 
tion, was afterwards trained up in everything that becomes a 
gentleman ; wearing off, by little and little, all the yicious 
habits and practices that he had been used to in the course 
of his peregrinations : nay, it is said, that he has since been 
employed in foreign courts upon national business, with great 
reputation to himself and honor to those who sent him, and 
that he has visited several coimtries as a public minister, in 
which he formerly wandered as a gipsy. 


MY friend Sir Roger de Coverley told me t'other night, 
that he had been reading my paper upon Westminster 
Abbey, in which, says he, there are a great many ingenious 
fancies. He told me, at the same time, that he observed I 
had promised another paper upon the tombs, and that he 
should be glad to go and see them with me, not having 
visited them since he had read history. I could not imagine 
how this came into the knight's head, till I recollected he had 
been very busy all last summer upon Baker's Chronicle, 
which he has quoted several times in his disputes with Sir 
Andrew Freeport, since his last coming to town. According- 
ly, I promised to call upon him the next morning, that we 
might go together to the abbey. 

I found the knight under his butler's hands, who always 
shaves him. He was no sooner dressed, than he called for a 
glass of the Widow Truby's Water, which he told me he al- 
ways drank before he went abroad. He recommended me to 
a dram of it at the same time, with so much heartiness, that 
I could not forbear drinking it. As soon as I had got it 


down, I found it very impalatable ; upon which the knight^ 
obflerying that I had made seyeral wrj facei^ told me. that he 
knew I should not like it at first, bat that it was the best 
thing in the world against the stone or gravel. 

I could haye wished indeed that he had acquainted me 
with the virtues of it sooner ; but it was too late to complain, 
and I knew what he had done was out of good-wilL Sir 
Roger told me further, iiiat he got together a quantity of it 
upon the first news of the sickness being at Dantnck ; when, 
of a sudden turning short to one of his servants who stood 
behind him, he bid him call a hackney coach, and take care 
it was an elderly man that drove it 

He then resumed his discourse upon Mrs. Truby's Water, 
telling me that the Widow Truby was one who did more good 
than all the doctors and apothecaries in the country ; that she 
distilled every poppy that grew within five miles of her ; that 
she distributed her water gratis among all sorts of people : 
to which the knight added that she had a very great jointure, 
and that the whole country would fain have it a match be- 
tween him and her ; " and truly," says Sir Roger, " if I had 
not been engaged, perhaps I could not have done better." 

His discourse was broken off by his man's telling him he 
had called a coach. Upon our going to it, after having cast 
his eye upon the wheels, he asked the coachman if his axle- 
tree was good ; upon the fellow's telling him he would war- 
rant it, the knight turned to me, told me he looked like an 
honest man, and went in without further ceremony. 

We had not gone far, when Sir Roger, popping out his 
head, called the coachman down from his box, and upon pre« 
salting himself at the window, asked him if he smoked. As 
I was considering what this would end in, he bid him stop by 
the way at any good tobacconist's, and take in a roll of their 
best Virginia. Nothing, material h^fenfid. in the remaining 


part of our journey, till we were set down at the west end of 
the abbey. 

As we went up the body of the church, the knight pointed 
at the trophies upon one of the new monuments, and cried 
out, " A brave man, I warrant him !'' Passing afteryrards by 
Sir Cloudesly Shovel, he flung his hand that way, and cried, 
" Sir Cloudesly Shovel ! a very gallant man." As we stood 
before Busby's tomb, the knight uttered himself again after 
the same manner : " Dr. Busby I a great man I he whipped 
my grandfather : a very great man ! I should have gone to 
him myself, if I had not been a blockhead : a very great man I" 

We were immediately conducted into the little chapel on 
the right hand. Sir Eoger, planting himself at our historian's 
elbow, was very attentive to everything he said, particularly 
to the account he gave us of the lord who had cut off the 
King of Morocco's head. Among several other figures, he 
was very much pleased to see the statesman Cecil upon his 
knees : and concluding them all to bo great men, was con- 
ducted to the figure which represents that martyr to good 
housewifery, who died by the prick of a needle. Upon our 
interpreter's telling us that die was maid of honor to Queen 
Elizabeth, the knight was very inquisitive about her name 
and family : and, after having regarded her finger for some 
time, '^ I wonder," says he, '^ that Sir Richard Baker has said 
nothing of her in his Chronicle." 

We were then conveyed to the two coronation chairs, 
where my old friend, after having heard that the stone under- 
neath the most ancient of them, which was brought from 
Scotland, was called Jacob's pillar, sat himself down ,in the 
chair, and, Jooking like the figure of an old Gothic king, asked 
our interpreter, what authority they had to say that Jacob 
had ever been in Scotland ? The fellow, instead of returning 
him an answer, told him that he begged his honor would pay 


his forfeit. I could observe Sir Roger a little ruffled upon 
being thus trepanned ; but our guide not insisting on his de- 
mand, the knight soon recovered his good-humor, and whis- 
pered in my ear, that if Will Wimble were with us, and saw 
those chairs, it would go hard but he would get a tobacco- 
stopper out of one or t'other of them. 

Sir Roger, in the next place, laid his hand upon Edward 
the Third's sword, and leaning upon the pummel of it, gave 
us the whole history of the Black Prince ; concluding, that 
in Sir Richard Baker's opinion, Edward the Third was one 
of the greatest princes that ever sat upon the English throne. 

•We were then shown Edward the Confessor's tomb ; upon 
which Sir Roger acquainted us, that he was the first who 
touched for the evil ; and afterwards Henry the Fourth's, 
upon which he shook his head, and told us there was fine 
reading in the casualties of that reign. 

Our conductor then pointed out that monument where 
there is the figure of one of our English kings without a head ; 
and upon giving us to know, that the head, which was of 
beaten silver, had been stolen away -several years since ; 
" Some Whig, I'll warrant you," said Sir Roger ; " you ought 
to lock up your kings better : they will carry off the body 
too, if you don't take care." 

The glorious names of Henry the Fifth and Queen Eliz- 
abeth gave the knight great opportunities of shining, and of 
doing justice to Sir Richard Baker, who, as our knight ob- 
served with some surprise, had a great many kings in him 
whose monuments he had not seen in the abbey. 

For my own part, I could not but be pleased to see the 
knight show such an honest passion for the glory of his coun- 
try, and such a respectful gratitude for the memory of its 

I must not omit, that the benevolence of my good old 


friend which flows out towards every one he converses with, 
made him very kind to our interpreter, whom he looked upon 
as an extraordinary man ; for which reason he shook him by 
the hand at parting, telling him that he should be very glad 
to see him at his lodgings in Norfolk Buildings, and talk over 
these matters with him more at leisure. 

3KlBtniw« if t|t /rmlr. 

About thirty years ago a volume appeared fh>in the pen of a trav- 
eller in France, which set " all the world" in England upon going to 
that country, and living on the charming " banks of the Loire ;" a 
river not so well known then, as it has lately been, for an ugly trick it 
has of overflowing its banks, and frightening its Paradisaical inhabit- 
ants out of their wits. We allude to the travels of Lieutenant-Colonel 
Pinckney, an officer in the American service, who made the greater 
part of his tour in company with another American gentleman and 
two French ladies, one of whom was his friend's wife. This circum- 
stance will account for the different modes in which he speaks of him- 
self in the following extracts, one of them implying that he was alone. 
Our extracts are what the reviewers would call " fevorable specimens ;" 
that is, of French character ; and we make them advisedly such, for 
neighborly purposes. Englishmen like to see &vorable specimens of 
their own travellers in the accounts given of them by Frenchmen ; 
and we therefore do as we would be done by. Both Englishmen and 
Frenchmen have faults to mend and customs to get rid of; and they 
cannot do better than by regarding with kindness what is best on 
both sides. 

THE main purpose of my journey (says the gallant Colo- 
nel) being rather to see the manners of the people, than 
the brick and mortar of the towns, I had formed a resolution 
to seek the necessary refreshment as seldom as possible at 


inns, and as often as possible in the houses of the humbler 
farmers, and the better kind of peasantry. About fifteen 
miles from Calais my horse and myself were looking out for 
something of this kind, and one shortly appeared about three 
hundred yards on the left side of the road. It was a cot- 
tage in the midst of a garden, and i^e whole surrounded by 
a hedge, which looked delightfully green and refreshing. The 
garden was all in flower and bloom. The walls of the cot- 
tage were robed in the ciame liyery of nature. I had se^ 
such cottages in Kent and Devonshire, but in no other part 
of the world. The inhabitants were simple people, small far- 
mers, haying about ten or fifteen aeres of land. Some grass 
was immediately cut for mj horse, and the coffee which I 
produced from my pocket was speedily set before me, with 
cakea, wine, some meat, and cheese— the French peasantry 
haying no idea of what we call tea. Throwing the windows 
up, so as to enjoy die scenery and firedinesB of the garden ; 
sitting upon one chair, and resting a leg upon l^e other ; al- 
ternately pouring out my eoffee, and reading a pocket edition 
of Thomson's Seasons^ I enjoyed one of those moments which 
gaye a zest to life ; I felt l^ppy, and in peace and in ioye 
with all around me. 

Proceeding upon my journey, two miles on the Calais 
side of Boulogne I fell in with an oyertumed chaise, which 
the postilion was trying to raise. The yehide was a chmse 
deposte^ the ordinary travelling carriage of the country, and 
a thing in a oiyilized country wretched beyond conception. 
It was drawn by three horses, one in the shafts, and one on 
each side. The postillion had ridden on the one on the 
driving side ; he was a little punch fellow, and in a pair of 
boots like fire-buckets. The travellers consisted of an old 
French lady and gentleman ; madame m a high crimped cap, 
and stiff l(i^wha2dx)Bft«te|«. MMfffBor suferoKd me v«r; 


oourteouslj of the cause of the accident, whilst madame al* 
ternatelj curtsied to me, and menaced and scolded the pos- 

A single cart, and a wagon, were all the vehicles that I 
saw between Boulogne and Abbeville. In England, in the 
same space, I should have seen a dozen or score. 

Not being pressed for time, the beauty of a scene at some 
little distance from the road-side tempted me to enter into a 
bye-lane, and take a nearer view of it. A village church, 
embosomed in a chestnut-wood, just rose above the trees on 
the top of a hill ; the setting sun was on its casements, and 
the foliage of the wood was burnished by the golden reflec- 
tion. The distant hum of the village green was just audible ; 
but not so the French horn, which echoed in full melody 
through the groves. Having rode about half a mile through 
a narrow sequestered lane, which strongly reminded me of 
the half-green and half-trodden bye-roads in ^Warwickshire, I 
came to the bottom of the hill, on the brow and summit of 
which the village and church were situated. I now saw 
whence the sound of the horn proceeded. On the left of the 
road was an ancient chateau, situated in a park or very ex- 
tensive meadow, and ornamented as well by some venerable 
trees, as by a circular fence of flowering shrubs, guarded on 
the outside by a paling on a raised mound. The park or 
meadow having been newly mown, had an air at once orna- 
mented and natural. A party of ladies were collected under 
a patch of trees situated in the middle of the lawn. I stopped 
at the gate to look at them, thinking myself unperceived ; 
but in the same moment the gate was opened to me by a gen- 
tleman and two ladies, who were walking the round. An ex- 
planation was now necessary, and was accordingly given. The 
gentleman informed me, upon his part, that the chateau be- 
longed to Mons. Si Qaentin, a member of the French senate, 


and a judge of the district ; that he had a party of friends 
with him upon the occasion of his lady's birthday, that they 
were about to begin dancing, and that Mons. St. Quentin 
would highly congratulate himself on my accidental arrival. 
One of the ladies, haying previously apologized and left us, 
had seemingly explained to Mons. St. Quentin the main cir- 
cumstance belonging to mie ; for he now appeared, and re- 
peated the invitation in his own person. The ladies added 
their kind importunities. I dismounted, gave my horse to a 
servant in waiting, and joined this happy and elegant party — 
for such it really was. 

I had now, for the first time, an opportunity of forming 
an opinion of French beauty, the assemblage of ladies being 
very numerous, and all of them most elegantly dressed. 
Travelling, and the imitative arts, have given a most surpris- 
ing uniformity to all the fashions of dress and ornament; and 
whatever may be said to the contrary, there is a very slight 
difference between the scenes of a French and English polite 
assembly. If anything, however, be distinguishable, it is 
more in degree than in substance. The French fashions, as 
I saw them here, differed in no other point from what I had 
seen in London, but in degree. . The ladies were certainly 
more exposed about the necks, and their hair was dressed 
with more fancy ; but the form was in almost everything the 
same. The most elegant novelty was a hat, which doubled 
up like a fan, so that the ladies carried it in their hands. 
There were more colored than white muslins ; a variety 
which had a very pretty effect amongst the trees and flowers. 
The same observation applies to the gehtlemien. Their 
dresses were made as in England ; but the pattern of the 
cloth, or some appendage to it, was different. One gentle- 
man habited in a grass-colored silk coat, had very much the 
appearance of Beau Mordeoai in the farce : the ladies, how- 


ever, Beemed to admire him ; and in some conversation with 
him I found him, in spite of his coat, a very well-informed 
man. There were likewise three or four fancy dresses ; a 
Dian, a wood-nymph, and a sweet girl playing upon a flute, 
habited according to a picture of Calypso by David. On the 
whole, there was certainly more fancy, more taste, and more 
elegance, than in an English party of the same description ; 
though there was not so many handsome women as would 
have been the proportion of such an assembly in England. 
^^^ From La Fleche to Angers, and thence to Ancennis, the 
country is a complete garden. The hills were covered with 
vines ; every wood had its chateau, and every village its church. 
The peasantry were clean and happy, the children cheerful 
and healthful looking, and the greater part of the younger 
women spirited and handsome. There was a great plenty 
of fruit ; and as we passed through the villages, it was invari- 
ably brought to us, and almost as invariably any pecuniary 
return refused with a retreating curtsey. One sweet girl, a 
young peasant, with eyes and complexion which would be es- 
teemed handsome even in Philadelphia, having made Mr. 
Young and myself lui offering of this kind, replied very pret- 
tily to our offer of money, that the women of La Fleche 
never sold either grapes or water ; as much as to say that the 
one was as plentiful as the other. Some of these young girls 
were dressed not only neatly but tastily. Straw hats are the 
manufacture of the province ; few of them, therefore, but had 
a straw bonnet, luid few of these bonnets were without rib- 
bons or flowers. 

We remained at Oudon till near sunset, when we resum- 
ed our road to Ancennis, where we intended to sleep. As 
this wafi only a distance of seven miles, we took it very lei- 
surely, sometimes riding and sometimes walking. The even- 
ing wafl afi beautiful as is usual in the southern paxts of 


Europe at this season of the year. The road wias most ro- 
mantically recluse, and so serpentine as never to be visible 
beyond a hundred yards. The nightingales were singing in 
the adjoining woods. The road, moreover, was bordered 
on each side by lofty hedges, intermingled with fruit-trees, 
and even vines in full bearing. At every half-mile a cross- 
road, branching from the main one, led into the recesses of 
the country, or to some castle or villa on the high groimds 
which look to the river. At some of these bye-ways were 
very curious, inscriptions, painted on narrow boards affixed to 
a tree. Such were, " The way to ' My Heart's Content' is half 
a league up this road, and then turn to the right, and keep on 
till you reach it." And another, " The way to ^Love's Her- 
mitage' is up this lane, till you come to the cherry-tree by 
the side of a chalk-pit, where there is another direction." 
Mademoiselle Sillery informed me, that these kind of inscrip- 
tions were characteristic of the banks of the Loire. 

" The inhabitants along the whole of the course of this 
river," said she, " have the reputation, from time immemorial, 
of being all native poets ; and the reputation, like some pro- 
phecies, has perhaps been the means of realizing itself You 
do not perhaps know that the Loire is called in the provinces 
the Eiver of Love : and doubtless its beautiful banks, its 
green meadows, and its woody recesses, have what the musi- 
cians would call a symphony of tone with that passion." I 
have translated this sentence verbally from my note-book, as 
it may give some idea of Mademoiselle Sillery. If ever a 
figure was formed to inspire the passion of which she spoke, 
it was this lady. Many days and years must pass over be- 
fore I forget our walk on the green road from Oudon to An- 
cennis^-one of the sweetest, softest scenes in France. 

We entered the forest of Ancennis as the sun was settings 
This forest is celebrated, in every ancient French ballad, as 

8 . 


being the haunt of fairies, and the scene of the 9ncient 
archery of the proyinces of Bretagne and Anjon. The road 
through it was oyer a green turf, in which the marks of a 
wheel were scarcely viBible. The forest on each side was 
very thick. At short intervals, narrow footpaths struck 
into the wood. Our carriage had been sent before to 
Ancennis, and we were walking merrily on, when the well- 
known sound of the French horn arrested our steps and 
attention. Mademoiselle Sillery immediately guessed it to 
proceed from a company of archers ; and in a few moments 
her conjecture was verified by the appearance of two ladies 
and a gentleman, who issued from one of the narrow paths. 
The ladies, who were merely running from the gentleman, 
were very tastily habited in the favorite French dress after 
the Dian of David ; whilst the blue silk jacket and hunting- 
cap of the gentleman gave him the appearance of a groom 
about to ride a race. Our appearance necessarily took their 
attention; and after an exchange of salutes, but in which 
no names were mentioned on either side, they invited us to 
accompany them to their party, who were refreshing them- 
selves in an adjoining dell. " We have had a party at arch- 
ery," said one of them, ^' and Madame St. Amande has won 
the silver bugle and bow. The party is now at supper, after 
which we go to the chateau to dance. Perhaps you will not 
suffer us to repent having met you, by refusing to accompany 
us." Mademoiselle Sillery was very eager to accept this 
invitation, and looked rather blank when Mrs. Young declin- 
ed it, as she wished to proceed on her road as quickly as pos- 
sible. '^ Ton will at least accompany us, merely to see the 
party." "By all means," said Mademoiselle Sillery. "I 
must really regret that I cannot," said Mrs. Young. " If it 
must be so," resumed the lady who was inviting us, '^ let us 
esohange tok^ns^ and ^e may meet l)gl^n," This proposal, 


80 perfectly new to me, was accepted : the fair archers gave 
our ladies their pearl crescents, which had the appearance of 
being of considerable yalue. Madame Young returned some- 
thing which I did not see : Mademoiselle Sillery gaye a silver 
Cupid, which had served her for an essence-bottle. The 
gentleman then shaking- hands with us, and the ladies embrac- 
ing each other, we parted mutually satisfied. '^ Who are these 
ladies ?" demanded I. '^ You know them as well as we do," 
replied Mademoiselle Sillery. "And is it thus," said I, 
" that you receive all strangers indiscriminately 9" " Yes," 
replied she, " all strangers of a certain condition. Where 
they are evidently of our own rank, we know of no reserve. 
Indeed, why should we ? It is to general advantage to be 
pleased, and to please each other." "But you embraced 
them as if you really felt an affection for them." " And I 
did feel that affection for them," said she, " as long as I was 
with them. I would have done them every service in my 
power, and would even have made sacrifices to serve them." 
" And yet if you were to see them again, you would perhaps 
not know them." " Very possibly," replied she. " But I can 
see no reason why every affection should be necessarily per- 
manent. We never pretend to permanence. We are cer- 
tainly transient, but not insincere." 

In this conversation we reached Ancennis, a village on a 
green surrounded by forests. Some of the cottages, as we 
saw them by moonlight, seemed most delightfully situated ; 
and the village had altogether that air of quietness and of 
rural retreat, which characterizes the scenery of the Loire. 
Our horses having preceded us by an hour or more, every- 
thing was prepared for us when we reached our inn. A 
turkey had been put down to roast, and I entered the kitchen 
in time to prevent its being spoilt by French cookery. 
Mademoiselle Sillery had the table provided in an instant 


with silver forks and table-linen. Had a Parisian seen a 
table thus set out at Ancennis, withont knowing that we had 
brought all these requisites with us, he would not have 
credited his senses. The inns in France along the banks of 
the Loire are less deficient in substantial comforts than in 
these ornamental appendages. Poultry is everywhere cheap, 
and in great plenty ; but a French inn-keeper has no idea of 
a tablen^loth, and still less of a clean one. He will give you 
food and a feather-bed, but you must provide yourselves with 
sheets and table-cloths. 

% WiVM nl (irattok 



**FTe often wished that I had dear, 
For life, six hondrad pounds a^eer, 
A handsome house to lodge a friend} 
A river ut my garden's end, 
A terrace wallc, and half a rood 
Of land set out to plant a wood." 

Few indeed are the persons that in the course of their li^es haTo 
not entertained wishes of the like sort. Sometimes they have realized 
them ; sometimes been disappointed by the realization itself. In the 
latter case, the faolt is neither in the wish nor in the things wished 
for. The wish is good, if only as a pleasure of the imagination and 
an encouragement to the means fbr attaining its object; and the 
things are found to be yery good indeed, by those Whose tempera- 
ments and habits quality them for the enjoyment. Stories of unhappy 
millionaires who retire only to find the country tedious, of tallow- 
chandlers who yearn for their melting days, and even of poets discon- 
tented with their "groves," proTe.but the want of previous fitness, or 
of sufficient good health.. The tallow-chandler should have cultivated 
something besides long-sixes, and the poet should not have sate read- 
ing about his groves till the state of his biliary vessels hindered his 
enjoyment when he got them. There is, however, a great deal of 
di£ference in those cases. That of the tallow^Ndiaiidler, if he knows 


nothing but tallow and is not in a patient state of health, ib hopeless, 
for he is neither clever nor poor enough to be able to go and help the 
Tillage carpenter. He mnst needs qnit his roses for the melting-tub, 
and in very desperation grows richer than he was before. But the 
love of groves and gardens being a habit of the poet's mind, he beai-s 
ill-health better with them than without them \ complaint itself com- 
forts him more than it does other men, for he complains in verse ; and 
it is not to be supposed that Shenstone, with all his desire of visitors, 
and Cowley, with all his child-like disappointments as to " rustic in- 
nocence," did not pass many happy, or at least many soothing, days 
in their country abodes. Shenstone, in particular, must have largely 
partalcen of the pleasures of a creator, for he invented the lovely 
scenes about his house, and saw to their execution. 

It would be a good work in some writer to collect instances of this 
kind of disappointment and the reverse, and show how entirely each 
was to be attributed to particular circumstances, and not to that uni- 
versal doom so falsely predicated of all human expectations. Great 
names prove nothing against counter-examples. Solomon himself 
may have been disappointed; but it was not because he was the 
" wisest of men ;" it was because he h*ad been too rich and luxurious, 
and so &r one of the foolishest. We do not find that his brother phi- 
losopher, Epicurus, was disappointed ; for he was poor and temperate, 
and thus was enabled to enjoy his garden to the last. There have been 
abdicated monarchs Who wished to resume their thrones — royal tal- 
low-chandlers who could not do without their melting levee-days; 
but such was not the case with Diocletian, who had a taste for gar- 
dening. On the contrary, he told the ambassadors who came to tempt 
him back to power, that if they knew what pleasure he took in his 
<' cabbages," they would hate to go back themselves. Swift, who imi- 
tated from Horace the verses at the head of this article, would never 
have been happy in retirement, for he had a restless blood, and his 
good consisted in the attainment of power. He must have written 
with greater zest the lines a little further on :— 

" But here a gn^evanoe seems to lie, 
All this is mine but till I die: 
I canU hut think 'twould sound more dever, 
To me and to my heirs forever.^ 

But his fHend Pope set up his rest early in life at Twickenham, and 
never deared to leave it. Ill-health itself in him was luckily of a kind 


thftt made him traaqniL The aathor of the Seasons never tired of 
the country. White of Selbome never tired of it. Both fonnd incef- 
fiant occu{)ation in watching the proceedings of the Nature they loved. 

It must be observed of Thomson, however, that he lived so near 
town as to be able to visit it whenever he chose. His house was at 
beautiful Richmond. I doubt not he would have been happy any- 
where with a few ti-ees and friends ; but he liked a play also, and 
streets, and human movement He would fain not go so far from 
London as not to be able to interchange the delights of town and 
country. And why should anybody that can help it 1 The loveliest 
country can be found within that reasonable distance, especially In 
these days of railroads. You may bury yourself in as healthy, if not 
as wide, a solitude as if you were in the Highlands ; and, in an hour 
or two, you can enhance the pleasures of returning to it, by a book 
of your own buying, or a toy for your children. To resign forever the 
convenience and pleasures of intercourse with a great city would be 
desired by few ; and it would be least of all desired (except under 
very particular circumstances) by those who can enjoy the country 
most ; because the power to discern, and the disposition to be pleased, 
are equally the secrets of the enjoyment in both cases. These, and a 
congenial occupation, will make a conscientious man happy anywhere 
if he has decent health ; and if he is sickly, no earthly comforts can 
supply the want of them, no, not even the affection of those about 
him : for what is affection, if it show nothing but the good hearts of 
those who feel it, and is wasted on a thankless temper 1 Acquire- 
ment of information, benignity, something to do, and as* many things 
as possible to love, these. are the secrets of happiness in town or coun- 
try. If White of Belbome had been a town instead of a country cler- 
gyman, he would have told us all about the birds in the city as well 
as the suburbs. We should have had the best reason given us why 
lime-trees flourish in London smoke ; lists of flowers for our windows 
would have been furnished us, together with their times of bloom- 
ing ; we should have been told of the Ratopolis under ground, as well 
as of the dray-horses above it ; and perhaps the discoverer of the 
double spiracuLa in the noses of stags would have found out the reason 
why tallow-chandlers have no noses at all 

Now, what sort of house would most take the fkncy of readers who 
enjoy a book like the present 1 We mean for repose and comfort, 
upart from the nobler and severer pleasures (very rare ones) arising 


tvom discharging the duties belonging to a large estate. Certainly nol 
the hoos^ belonging to such an estate ; not a house Kke PHoy's, the 
size and " set out" of which it is a labor to read of; not the cold 
southern halls of the Romans or Italians, unfit for this climate ; nor an 
ancient Oreek, nor modem Eastern house, with the women's apart- 
ments imprisoned off A*om the rest ; nor an old Freneh chateau (ex- 
cept in Mrs. Radcliffe's romances)— fbr though pretty to read of, as 
belonging to the Montmorencys or the Rambouillets, it was inconye- 
nient inside, and had formal grounds without; nor the Inokbering old 
German house, such as Goethe describes it, though habit and love 
may haye sanctified all these ; no, nor even the princely palace of 
Chatsworth, though it be as full of taste as the owner, and <^ fra- 
grance tcom. conservatories as of blessings from the poor. Comfbrtable 
rooms, doubtless, are to be found in that palace ; nay, snug ones ; for 
the height of taste implies the height of good sense ; and such ia neSt 
and comer-loving mood of the mind as that epithet designates, we 
may be sure is not unprovided for. Tet the comer stiU is in the great 
house ; is a part of it ; cannot get rid of it ; is shouldered and (of any 
other such mansion you might say) scorned by it. We must have 
been used to such houses all our lives (which is seldom the case with 
those whose luxuries lie in books), otherwise we cannot settle our- 
aelves comfortably in idea to the extent and responsft>i1]ties of all those 
raits of apartments, those corridors, pillars, galleries, looks out and 
looks in, and to the yisitations of the steward. It is not a house, but 
a set of houses thrown into one ; not a nest, but a range under cover; 
not a privacy, but a publicity and an empire ! Admiration and bless- 
ing be upon it, for it is the great house of a good man and his large 
heart fits it well ; and yet assuredly, in the eyes of us lovers of nooks 
and books, the idea of him never seems so happy as when it con- 
tracts its princely dimensions, and stoops into such eottage rooms as 
some in which we have had the pleasure of beholding him. 

But we must not digress in this manner, with an impertinence how- 
ever respectfVil. 

The house to be desiderated by the lover of books in ordinary, is 
a warm, cosy, picturesque, irregular house, either old but not fri^ile, 
or new but built upon some good principle ; a house possessing, never- 
theless, modem comforts ; neither big enough to require riches, nor 
small enough to cause inconvenience; more open to the sun than 
otherwise ; yet with trees about it, and the sight of more ; a piospett 


iOB one of the sides, to si?e it a sense of freedom, bot a doser 
scene in front, to innire the sense of snngness; afarden neither 
wild nor formal ; or rather two ^rdens, if possible, though not of ex- 
pensive size ; one to remind him of the time of his ancestors, a " trim 
garden," with pattern beds of flowers, lavender, d&a, and a terrace — 
the other of a freer sort, with a shmbbery, and tnrf and trees ; a 
bowling-green by all means ; (what sane person woold be without a 
bowling-green 1) a rookery ; a dove-oote ; a brook ; a paddock ; a 
heath for air ; hill and dale fbr variety ; walks in a forest, trunks of 
trees for seats ; towers " embosomed" in their companions ; pastures, 
cottages ; a town not far off; an abbey close by ; mountains in the 
distance ; a glimpse of sails in a river, but not large sails ; a combina- 
tion, in short, of all which is the most — — 

But ludd. One tw^itieth part of all this will suffice, if the air be 
good, and the nei^bors congenial ; a cottage, an old fiirm-house, any- 
thing solid and not ugly, always excepting the mere modem house, 
which looks like a barrack, or like a workhouse, or like a chapel, or 
like a square box with holes cut into it for windows, or a great bit of 
cheese or hearth-stone, or yellow ochre. It has a gravel walk up to 
the door, and a bit of unhappy creeper trying to live upon it ; and 
(under any possible circumstances of quittal) is a disgrace to inhabit. 
< As to the garden, the only absolute isine qua non is a fe-w good 
briUiant beds of flowers, some grass, some shade, and a bank. But 
if there is a bee-hive in a comer it is better; and if there is a 
bee-hive, there ought to be a brook, provided it is clear, and the soil 


*( There, in some covert, by a brook, 
Where no proflmer eye may look| 
Hide me fh>m day's garish eye ; 
WhUe the bee with honied thigh, 
That at her flowery work doth sing) 
And the waters mimnoring, 
With such concert as they keep, 
Entice the dewy-featherM atoep." 

Beware, though, as Gray says, " of agoes," It is good in the land of 
poetry, to sleep by a brook ; but in Middlesex it is best to do it in 
one's chamber. The best place to take a nap in, out of doors, in this 
lovely but moist country, is a hay-field. 

But we are detaining the reader from the houses and gardens pro- 
vided for him by his books. What signify any others, while the en- 



Joyment of these Is upon lu 1 May-Fair or Saint Mary Axe can alike 
rejoice in them. The least lozurions room in a street^ provided there 
be bnt qniet enough to read by, or imagination enough to forget one's 
self, enables us to be put in possession of a paradise. 

We shall begin wiUi the modest retreat desiderated by Cowley, and 
the eulogy which he has delivered on gardens in general. His style is 
as sweet and sincere as his wishes. The poetical portion of his essay is 
addressed to the famous English country gentleman and sylvan patriot, 
his fViend Evelyn, who realized all and more than the sensitive poet 
did, because his means were greater and his complexion more healthy. 
But Cowley must have had delicious moments both in fkncy and pos- 
session ; and if there be gardens in heaven resembling those on earth 
(which some have thought, and which is not so unheavenly a notion 
as many that are held divine), his innocent heart is surely the inhabi- 
tant of one of the best of them. 



I NEVER had any other desire so strong, and so like to 
covetousness, as that one which I have had always, that I 
might be master at last of a small house and large garden, 
with very moderate conveniences joined to them, and there 
dedicate the remainder of my life, only to the culture of them, 
and study of nature ; 

" And there (with no desig:n beyond my wall) whole and entire to lie, 
In no unactive ease, and no unglorioos poverty." 

Or, as Virgil has said, shorter and better for me, that I 
might there 

" Studiis florere ignobilis oti ;"♦ 

though I could wish that he had rather said, " Nobilis oti," 
when he spoke of his own. 

* [Take stadious flower in undistlngoished ease.] 


Among many other arts and excellences which you en- 
joy, I am glad to find this favorite of mine the most predom- 
inant. I know nohody that possesses more private happi- 
ness than you do in your garden ; and yet no man who 
makes his happiness more public, by a free communication 
of the art and knowledge of it to others. All that I myself 
am able yet to do, is only to recommend to mankind the 
search of that felicity, which you instruct them how to find 
out and to enjoy. 

Happy art thou, whom G-od does bless 
With the full choice of thine own happiness ,' 

And happier yet, because thou'rt blest 

With prudence how to choose the best. 
In books and gardens, thou hast placed aright 

(Things which thou well dost understand. 
And both dost make with thy laborious hand) 

Thy noble innocent delight : 
And in thy virtuous wife, where thou again dost meet 

Both pleasures more refin'd and sweet, 

The fairest garden in her looks. 

And in her mind the wisest books. 
Oh, who would change these soft, yet solid joys, 

For empty shows, and senseless noise ; 

And all which rank ambition breeds. 
Which seem such beauteous fiowers, and are such poisODOUS 
weeds ? 

When Epicurus to the world had taught 

That pleasure was the chiefest good, 
(And was perhaps i* th' right, if rightly understood), 

His life he to his doctrine brought. 
And in a garden's shade that sovereign pleasure sought : 


Whoerer a true epicure would be, 

May there find cheap and virtuous luxury 

Yitellius' table, which did hold 

As many creatures as the ark of old, 

That fiscal table to which every day 

All countries did a constant tribute pay, 

Gould nothing more delicious afford, 

Than nature's liberality 
Help'd with a little art and industry 
Allows the meanest gardener's board. 
The wanton taste no fish or fowl can choose, 
For which the grape or melon she would losa 
Though all th' inhabitants of sea and air 
Be listed in the glutton's bill of fare, 

Yet still the fruits of earth we see 
Plac'd the third story high in all her luxury. 

Where does the wisdom and the power divine 
In a more bright and sweet reflection shine, — 
Where do we finer strokes and colors see 
Of the Creator's real poetry, 

Than when we with attention look 
Upon the third day's volume of the book ? 
If we could open and intend our eye. 

We all, like Moses, should espy, 
Ev'n in a bush, the radiant Deity. 
But we despise these his inferior ways 
(Though no less "full of miracle and praise) : 

Upon the flowers of heaven we gaze ; 
The stars of earth no wonder in us raise. 

Though these perhaps do, more than they. 

The life of mankind sway. 
Although no part of mighty nature be 


More stored with beauty, power and mystery, 
Yet, to encourage human industry, 
God has so ordered, tkat no other part 
Such space and su0h dominion leaves for art. 

We nowhere art do so triumphant see, 

As when i^ grafts or buds the tree : 
In other things we count it to ezcel^ 
If it a docile scholar can appear 
To nature, and but imitate her well ; 
It over-rules and is her master here. 
It imitates her Maker's power divine. 
And changes her sometimes and sometimes does refine : 
It does, like grace, the fallen tree restore, 
To its blest state of Paradise before. 
Who would not joy to see his conquering hand 
O'er all the vegetable world command ? 
And the wild giants of the wood receive 

What law he's pleas'd to give ? 
He bids th' ill-natur'd crab produce 
The gentler apple's winy juice. 
The golden fruit that worthy is 
Of Galatea's purple kiss : 
He does the savage hawthorn teach 
To bear the medlar and the pear ; 
He bids the rustic plum to rear 
A noble trunk, and be a peach. 
Even Daphne's coyness be doth mock, 
And weds the cherry to her stock. 
Though she refos'd Apollo's suit. 

Even she, that chaste and virgin tree. 

Now wonders at herself to see 
That she's a sipther made, and blushes in her firuit 


Methinks I see great Bioclesian walk 
In the Salonian garden's noble shade, 
Which by his own imperial hands was made ; 
I see him smile (methinks) as he does talk 
With th' ambassadors who come in vain 

T' entice him to a throne again. 
If I, my friends (said he), should to you show 
All the delights which in these gardens grow, 
'Tis likelier much that you should with me stay, 
Than 'tis that you should carry me away. 
And trust me not, my friends, if every day 

I walk not here with more delight 
Than ever, after the most happy fight, 
In triumph to the capitol I rode. 
To thank the gods, and to be thought, myself almost a god. 

A noble finish that, to a sometimes prosaical, often poetical, and 
always engaging and thoughlfal effusion. 

The garden possessed by Cowley's friend Evelyn was at his seat 
of Sayes Court, Deptford. It contained, among other beauties, an 
enormous hedge of holly, which made a glorious show in winter time 
with its shining red berries. The Czar Peter, who came to England 
in Evelyn's time, and occupied his house, took delight (by way of 
procuring himself a strong Russian sensation), in being drawn through 
this hedge " in a wheel-baiTow !" He left it in sad condition accord- 
ingly, to the disgust and lamentation of the owner. The garden cuts 
rather a formal and solemn figure, to modem eyes, in the engravings 
that remain of it. But such engravings can suggest little of color and 
movement of flowers and the breathing trees ; and our ancestors had 
more reason to admire those old orderly creations of theirs than mod- 
em improvement allows. We are too apt to suppose that one thing 
cannot be good, because another is better ; or that an improvement 
cannot too often reject what it might include or ameliorate. There 
was no want of enthusiasm in the admirers of the old style, whether 
they were right or wrong. Hear what an arbiter of taste in the next 
age said of it, the famous Sir William Temple. He was an honest 


Btatesman and mild Spicnrean philosopher, in the real aenae of that 
designation ; that is to say, temperate and reflecting, and fonder of a 
garden and the friends ahout him than of anything else. He was a 
great cultivator of frait. He had the rare pleasure of ohtaining tho 
retirement he loyed ; first at Sheen, near Richmond, in Surrey, which 
is the place alluded to in the following " Thoughts on Retirement -** 
and, secondly, at Moor Park, near Famham, in the same county— a 
residence probably named after the Moor Park which he eulogizes in 
the subsequent description of a garden. In the garden of his house 
at Famham he directed that his heart should be buried ; and it was. 
The sun-dial, under which he desired it might be deposited, is still 




AS the country life, and this part of it more particularly 
(gardening), were the inclination of my youth itself, so 
they are the pleasure of my age ; and I can truly say, that, 
among many great employments that haye fallen to my share, 
I have never asked or sought for any one of them, but often 
endeavored to escape from them into the ease and freedom 
of a private scene, where a man may go his own way and his 
own pace, in the common paths or circles of life.* 

" Inter cuncta leges et per cunctabere doctos 
Qua ratione queas traducere leniter sevum, 
Quid minuat curse, quid te tibi reddet amicum ; 
Quid pure tranquillet, honos, an dulce lucellnm, 
An secretum iter, et fallentis semita vitss." 

But above all the learned read, and ask 

By what means you may gently pass your age, 

What lessens care, what makes thee thine own friend, 

What truly calms the mind ; honor, or wealth, 

Or else a private path of stealing life. 


These are the qaestions that a man o«ght at letot to aak 
himself, whether he asks others or no, and to choose his 
coarse of life rather by his own humor and temper, than bj 
common accidents, or advice of friends; at least if the 
Spanish proyerb be true, That a fool knows more in his own 
house than a wise man in another's. 

The measure of choosing well is, whether a man likes 
what he has chosen ; which, I thank God, is what has be- 
fallen me ; and though among the follies of my life, buildmg 
and planting have not been the least, and have cost me more 
than I have the confidence to own, yet they have been fully 
recompensed by the sweetness and satisfaction of this retreat, 
where, since my resolution taken of never entering again into 
any public employments, I have passed five years without 
ever going once to town, though I am almost in sight of it 
and have a house there always ready to receive me. Nor 
has this been any sort of affectation, as some have thought 
it, but a mere want of desire or humor to make so small a 
remove: for when I am in this comer, I can truly say with 

" Me qaoties reflcit gelidos Digentia rivos, 
Quid sentire putas, quid credis, amice, precari 1 
Sit mihi, quod Dunc est, etiam minus, ut mihi vivam 
Qnod superest sevi, si quid superesse volunt Di. 
Sit bona librorum, et provissB frugis in annum 
Copia, ne fluitem dubias spe pendulus horse ; 
Hoc satis est orare Jovem, qui donat et aufert" 

Me when the cold Digentian stream revfyes, 
What does my fHend believe I tiiink or ask 1 
liOt me yet less possess, so I may live, 
Whate'er of lifb remains, unto myself. 
May I have books enough, and one year's store, 
Not to depend upon each doubtftil hour ; 
This is enough of mighty Jove to pray, 
Who, as he pleases, gives and takes away. 





THE perfeetest figure of a garden I ever saw, either at 
li(Hne or abroad, was that of Moor Park in Hertfordshire, 
when I knew it about thirty years ago. It was made by the 
Countess of Bedford, ^teemed among the greatest wits of 
her time, and celebrated by Dr. Donne. I will describe it 
for a model to those that meet with such a situation, and are 
above the regards of common expense. It lies on the side 
of a hill (upon which the house stands), but not very steep. 
The length of the house, where the best rooms and of most 
use or pleasure are, lies upon the breadth of the garden. 
The great parlor opens into the middle of a terras gravel- 
walk that lies even with it, and which may be, as I remember, 
about three hundred paces long, and broad in proportion; 
the border set with standard laurels, and at large distances, 
which have the beauty of orange-trees, out of flower and fruit. 
From this walk are three descents by many stone steps, in 
the middle and at each end, into a very large parterre. This 
is divided into quarters by gravel-walks, and adorned by two 
fountains and eight statues in the several quarters. At the 
end of the terras-walk are two summer-houses, and the sides 
of the parterre are ranged with two large cloisters, open to 
the garden, upon arches of stone, and ending with two other 
summer-houses even with the cloisters, which are paved with 
stone, and designed for walks of shade, there being none 
other in the whole parterre. Over these two cloisters are 
two terrasses covered with lead, and fenced with balusters ; 
and the passage into these airy walks is out of the two sunik- 
mer-houses at the end of the first terras-walk. The cloister 


fkcing the south is covered with vines, and would have been 
proper for an orange-house, and the other for myrtles, or 
otbper more common greens,^ and had, I doubt not, been cast 
for that purpose, if this piece of gardening had been in as 
much vogue as it is now. 

From the middle of the parterre is a descent by many 
steps, flying on each side of a grotto that lies between them 
(covered with lead, and flat) into the lower garden, which is 
all fruit-trees, ranged about the several quarters of a wilder- 
ness which is very shady. The walks here are all green, the 
grotto embellished with figures of shell-rock-work, fountains, 
and water-works. If the hill had not ended with the lower 
garden, and the wall were not bounded by a common way that 
goes through the park, they might have added a third quar- 
ter of all greens ; but this want is supplied by a garden on 
the other side the house, which is all of that sort, very wild, 
very shady, and adorned with rough rock-work and fountains. 

This was Moor Park when I was acquainted with it, and 
the sweetest place, I think, that I have seen in my life, either 
before or since, at home or abroad. What it is now I can 
give little account, having passed through several hands that 
have made great changes in gardens as well as houses ; but 
the remembrance of what it was is too pleasant ever to forget. 

The taste of Sir William Temple in gardening prevailed more or 
less up to the time of George the Third ; but though Milton had in 
some degree countenanced it, or appeared to do so, in the couplet in 
which he speaks of 

"Retired leisoro, 
That in trim gardens takes his plewrare," 

yet the very universality of right feeling natural to a poet could not 
help running out of such bounds, when he came to describe a garden 
fit for paradise. Spenser had set him the example in his " Bower of 

* &r0«M formerly meant plants in genenU. 


Bliss ^" and Tasso, who is supposed to have drawn from some actual 
gardens in his own time, had set Spenser himself the example in his 
beautiful account of the bowers of Armida. The probability is, that 
in all great ages Nature had spoken on the subject, in particular in- 
stances, to the feelings of genius. Even the Chinese are thought to 
have anticipated the modem taste, though with their usual semi-bar- 
barous mixture of clumsy magnificence and petty details; possibly 
not always so much so, as the startled invidiousness of their betters 
has supposed. The Chinese, at all events, are very fond of flowers, 
and show a truly poetical appreciation of their merits, as may be seen 
in the charming novel of Jn-Kiao-Li. Milton's garden of Eden made 
a great impression, when Addison dug it up for the general benefit in 
his articles on the great poet in the Spectator. Pope's good sense was 
naturally on the side of it ; and Shenstone gave into it with practical 
and masterly enthusiasm. Hence the rise of what is called landscape 
gardening. The new taste ran a little wild at first in the hands of 
" Kent and Nature ;" then incurred another danger in more mechani- 
cal hands ; but has finally become the best that ever existed, by the 
combination of a liberal feeling for nature with the avowed and local 
reasonableness of art. Gardens are now adapted to places, to climates, 
and to the demands of the presence of a house ; that is to say, to the 
compromise which the house naturally tends to make between some- 
thing like the orderliness and comfort inside of it, and the mature 
which art goes forth to meet. This is the reason why we have said 
we should like to have two gardens, if possible : one modified from the 
old terraces and parterres and formal groves of our ancestors, and the 
other from the wildness of " Kent and Nature." If required to choose 
between the two, we should say, Give us anything comprising a few 
trees, a few fiowers, a plot of grass, a bench, and seclusion ; — anything 
in which we could pace up and down, sit when we pleased, see a little 
brilliant color, a good deal of green, and not be overlooked. What- 
ever did this best, we should like best, whether made by art or nature. 
There was a lady in the time of Pope, a true poetess (if she had 
but known it and taken pains). Lady Winchilsea, a friend of his, who 
had as thorough a taste for seclusion on the romantic side as ever ex- 
isted. Her maiden name was Kingsmill ; her husband the fifth Earl 
of Winchilsea, of the same family that now possess the title. Anne 
Kingsmill was an open-hearted, excellent creature ; she made a loving 
friend and wife ; is one of the very few original observers of nature 


(as Wordsworth has remarked) who appeared in an artificial age ; and 
deserves to have been gathered into collectioos of English verse far 
more than half of onr minor poets. We will give a taste or two of 
this lady's style fVom her poem on the subject of retirement, and then 
eondude the present department of our book with two papers oat of 
the periodical works of Mackenzie, worthy to have been read by her- 
self, and more suited to the desires of readers in generaL There is a 
great deal more of the poem, all creditable to the writer's turn of 
mind, but not choice enough in style for a book of selection. We beg 
the reader's admiration for the burden at the doae of eadi paragn^ 



GIVE me, indulgent Fate, 
Give me yet before I die, 
A sweet, but absolute retreat,, 
'Mongst paths so lost, and trees so high, 
That the world may ne'er invade. 
Through such windings and such shade, 
My unshaken liberty. 

No intruders thither come, 
Who visit but to be from home ; 
None who their vain moments pass 
Only studious of their glass. 
News, that charm, to listening ears. 
That false alarm to hopes and fears, 
That common theme for every fop 
From the statesman to the shop. 
In these coverts ne'er be spread ; 
Of who's deceas'd or who's to wed 
Be no tidings thither brought ; 
But silent as a midnight thought, 


Where the world may ne'er invade, 
Be those windings and that shade. 

Courteous Fate ! afford me there 
A table spread, without mj care, 
With what the neighboring fiekb impart, 
Whose cleanlineiss be all its art. 
When of old the calf was drest 
(Though to make an angel's feast) 
In the plain, unstudied sauce 
Nor truffle, nor moriUia was, 
Nor oou'd the mighty patriarch's board 
One far*fetchM ortolan afford. 
Courteous Fate, then give me there 
Only plain and wholesome fare. 
Fruits indeed (wou'd Heaven bestow) 
All that did in Eden grow. 
All, but i^e forbidden tree^ 
Wou'd be coveted by me ; 
Grapes with juice so crowded up, 
As breaking thro' the native cup ; 
Figs (yet growing) candy'd o'er 
By the sun's attracting pow'r ; 
Cherries, with the downy peach, 
All within my easy reach ; 
Whilst creeping near the humble ground 
Shou'd the strawberry be found. 
Springing wheresoe'er I stray'd 
Thro' those windings and that shade. 

Give me there (since Heaven has shown 
It was not good to be alone) 
A partner suited to my mind. 
Solitary, pleas'd, and kind ; 


Who, partially, may something see 

Preferr'd to all the world in me ; 

Slighting, by my humble side, 

Fame and splendor, wealth and pride. 

When but two the earth possest, 

'Twas their happiest days, and best ] 

They by business, nor by wars, 

They by no domestic cares, 

From each other e'er were drawn, 

But in some grove or flow*ry lawn 

Spent the swiftly flying time, 

Spent their own and nature's prime 

In love, that only passion given 

To perfect man, whilst friends with Hearen. 

Kage, and jealousy, and hate, 

Transports of his fallen state. 

When by Satan's wiles betray'd, 

Fly those windings, and that shade 1 

Let me then, indulgent Fate f 

Let me still in my retreat 

From all roving thoughts be freed, 

Or aims that may contention breed ; 

Nor be my endeavors led 

By goods that perish with the dead I 

Fitly might the life of man 

Be indeed esteem'd a span, . 

If the present moment were 

Of delight his only share ; 

If no other joys he knew 

Than what round about him grew : 

But as those whose stars would trace 

From a subterranean place, 


Through some engine lift their eyes ^ 

To the outward glorious skies ; 

So th' immortal spirit may, 

When descended to our clay, 

From a rightly govem'd frame 

View the height from whence she came ; 

To her Paradise be caught, 

And things unutterable taught. 

Give me, then, in that retreat, 

Give me, O indulgent Fate 1 

For all pleasures left behind. 

Contemplations of the mind. 

Let the fair, the gay, the vain. 

Courtship and applause obtain ; 

Let th' ambitious rule the earth ; 

Let the giddy fool have mirth ; 

Give the epicure his dish. 

Every one their several wish ; 

Whilst my transports I employ 

On that more extensive joy. 

When all Heaven shall be surveyed 

From those windings and that shade. 

PEOM Mackenzie's "lounger," no. 87. 

The old lady described in the following chaiming paper of Mac- 
kenzie (which was a fkvorite with Sir Walter Scott), is not of so large- 
minded an order as Lady Winchilsea, but she has as good a heart ; is 
very touching and pleasant ; and her abode suits her admirably. It 
is the remnant of something that would have been greater in a greater 
age. We fancy her countenance to have been one that would have re- 
minded us of the charming old face in Drayton : 

** ET*n in the aged'st (hoe where beauty once did dwell, 
And If atnre in the leaat but seemed to excel, 
Time fltonot make such waste, but something wiU appear 
To Show aome little tract of delicacy there." 


The reader, perhaps, hardly requires to be told that Mackenzie, 
whose writings have been gathered into the British classics, was a 
Scottish gentleman, bred to the bar, who in his youth wrote the once 
popular novel called the Man of PeeUngy and died not long ago at a 
reverend age, universally regretted. He was the editor and principal 
writer of the two periodical works called the Mirror and Lounger^ to 
which several of the reigning Scottish wits contributed. He was not 
a very original or powerful writer, but he was a very shrewd, elegant, 
and pleasing one, a happy offset from Addison \ and he sometimes 
showed great pathos. His stories of La Roche and Louisa Venoni are 
among the most affecting in the world, and ft'ee from the somewhat 


t&orbid softness of his novel. We are the happier in being able to do 
this tardy, though very unnecessary justice to the merits of a good 
man and a graceful essayist, because in the petulance and presumption 
of youth we had mistaken our incompetence to judge them for the 
measure of their pretensions. 

I HAVE long cultivated a talent very fortunate for a man 
of my disposition, that of travelling in my easy chair ; 
of transporting myself, without stirring from my parlor, to 
distant places and to absent friends ; of drawing scenes in 
my mind's eye ; and of peopling them with the groups of 
fancy, or the society of remembrance. When I have some- 
times lately felt the dreariness of the town, deserted by my 
acquaintance ; when I have returned from the coffee-house, 
where the boxes were unoccupied, and strolled out from my 
accustomed walk, which even the lame beggar had left, I 
was fain to shut myself up in my room, order a dish of my 
best tea (for there is n sort of melancholy which disposes 
one to make much of one's self), and calling up the powers 
of memory and imagination, leave the solitary town for a 
solitude more interesting, which my younger days enjoyed 
in the country, which I think, and if I am wrong I do not 
wish to be undeceived, was the most Elysian spot in the 

'Twas at an old lady's, a relation and godmother of 
mine, where a particular incident occasioned my being left 
during the vacation of two successive seasons. Her house 
was formed out of the remains of an old Gothic castle, of 
which one tower was still almost entire ; it was tenanted 
by kindly daws and swallows. Beneath, in a modernized 
part of the house, resided the mistress of the mansion. The 
house was skirted by a few majestic elms and beeches, and 
the stumps of several others showed that once they had been 



more numerous. To the west a clump of firs covered a rag- 
ged rocky dell, where the rooks claimed a prescriptive seign- 
orj. Through this a dashing rivulet forced its way, which 
afterwards grew quiet in its progress ; and gurgling gently 
through a piece of downy meadow-ground, crossed the bottom 
of the garden, where a little rustic paling enclosed a washing- 
green, and a wicker seat, fronting the south, was placed for 
the accommodation of the old lady, whose lesser tour, when 
her fields did not require a visit, used to terminate in this 
spot. Here, too, were ranged the hives for her bees, whose 
hum, in a still warm sunshine, soothed the good old lady's 
indolence, while their proverbial industry was sometimes 
quoted for the instruction of her washers. The brook ran 
brawling through some underwood on the outside of the gar- 
den, and soon after formed a little cascade, which fell into 
the river that winded through a valley in front of the house. 
When hay-making or harvest was going on, my godmother 
took her long stick in her hand, and oVerlooked the labors of 
the mowers or reapers ; though I believe there was little 
thrift in the superin tendency, as the visit generally cost her 
a draught of beer or a dram, to encourage their diligence. 

Within doors she had so able an assistant, that her labor 
was little. In that department an old man-servant was her 
minister, the father of my Peter, who serves me not the less 
faitMuUy that we have gathered nuts together in my god- 
mother's hazel-bank. This old butler (I call him by his 
title of honor, though in truth he had many subordinate 
offices) had originally enlisted with her husband, who went 
into the army a youth (though he afterwards married and be- 
came a country gentleman), had been his servant abroad, and 
attended him during his last illness at home. His best hat, 
which he wore on Sundays, with a scarlet' waistcoat of his 
master's, had still a cockade in it. 


Her husband's books were in a room at the top of a screw 
staircase, which had scarce been opened since his death ; bat 
her own library, for Sabbath or rainy days, was ranged in a 
little book-press in the parlor. It consisted, so far as I can 
remember, of several volumes of sermons, a Concordance^ 
Thomas a Kempis, Antoninus's Meditations, the works of 
the author of the Whole DzUy of Man, and a translation of 
Boethius ; the original editions of the Spectator and Guar- 
dian, Cowhtfs Poems (of which I had lost a volume soon 
after I first came about her house), Baker's Chronicle, Bur- 
fiefs History of his otvn Times, Lamh^s Bxyyal Cookery, Aber- 
cromby's Scots Warriors, and Nisbet^s Heraldry, 

The subject of the last-mentioned book was my god- 
mother's strong ground ; and she could disentangle a point 
of genealogy beyond any one I ever knew. She had an ex- 
cellent memory for anecdotes ; and her stories, though some- 
times long, were never tiresome ; for she had been a woman 
of great beauty and accomplishment in her youth, and had 
kept such company as made the drama of her stories respec- 
table and interesting. She spoke frequently of such of her 
own family as she remembered when a child, but scarcely 
ever of those she had lost, though one could see she thought 
of them often. She had buried a beloved husband and four 
children. Her youngest, Edward, " her beautiful her brave," 
fell in Flanders, and was not entombed with his ancestors. 
His picture, done when a child, an artless red and white por- 
trait, smelling at a nosegay, but very like withal, hung at her 
bed-side, and his sword and gorget were crossed under it. 
When she spoke of a soldier, it was in a style above her usual 
simplicity ; there was a sort of swell in her language, which 
sometimes a tear (for her age had not lost the privilege of 
tears) made still more eloquent. She kept her sorrows, like 
her devotions that solaced them, sacred to herself. They 


threw nothing of gloom over her deportment ; a gentle shade 
only, like the fleckered clouds of summer, that increase, not 
diminish, the benignity of the season. 

She had few neighbors, and still fewer visitors ; but her 
receptioD of such as did visit her was cordial in the extreme. 
She pressed a little too much, perhaps ; but there was so 
much heart and good-will in her importunity, as made her 
good things seem better than those of any other table. Nor 
was her attention confined only to the good fare of her guests, 
though it might have flattered her vanity more than that of 
most exhibitors of good dinners, because the cookery was 
generally directed by herself Their servants lived as well 
in her hall, and their horses in her stable. She looked after 
the airing of their sheets, and saw their fires mended if the 
night was cold. Her old butler, who rose betimes, would 
never suffer anybody to mount his horse fasting. 

The parson of the parish was her guest every Sunday, 
and said prayers in the evening. To say truth, he was no 
great genius, nor much a scholar. I believe my godmother 
Imew rather more of divinity than he did ; but she received 
from him information of another sort : he told her who were 
the poor, the sick, the dying of the parish, and she had some 
assistance, some comfort for them all. 

I could draw the old lady at this moment ! dressed in 
gray, with a clean white hood nicely plaited (for she was 
somewhat finical about the neatness of her person), sitting in 
her straight-backed elbow-chair, which stood in a large win- 
dow, scooped out of the thickness of the ancient wall The 
middle panes of the window were of painted glass — the story 
of Joseph and his brethren. On the outside waved a honey- 
suckle tree, which often threw its shade across her book or 
her work ; but she would not allow it to be cut down. " It 
has stood there many a day,*' said she, ^ an^ we old inhabi- 


iants should bear with one another.'' Methinks I see her 
thus seated, her spectacles on, but raised a little on her brow 
for a pause of explanation, their shagreen case laid between 
the leaves of a silver-clasped family Bible. On one side, her 
bell and snuff-box ; on the other, her knitting apparatus in a 
blue damask bag. — Between her and the fire an old Spanish 
pointer, that had formerly been her son Edward's, teased, but 
not teased out of his gravity, by a little terrier of mine. — All 
this is before me, and I am a hundred miles from town, its 
inhabitants, and its business. In town I may have seen such 
a figure : but the country scenery around, like the tasteful 
frame of an excellent picture, gives it a heightening, a relief, 
which it would lose in any other situation. 

Some of my readers, perhaps, will look with little relish 
on the portrait, I know it is an egotism in me to talk of 
its value ; but over this dish of tea, and in such a temper of 
mind, one is given to egotism. It will be only adding another 
to say, that when I recall the rural scene of the good old 
lady's abode, her simple, her innocent, her useful employ- 
ments, the afflictions she sustained in this world, the comforts 
she drew from another, I feel a serenity of soul, a benignity 
of affections, which I am sure confer happiness, and I think 
must promote virtue. 

This delightful paper appears to have had its just effect on the 
readers of the Lounger. It produced some pleasant remarks from a 
correspondent who signed himself " Urhanus ;" and these remarks 
prodaced a letter from the Editor himself, under the signature of 
'' Adrastns," which contains a sort of character of an Old Gentleman 
to match that of the Old Lady, and has also a tone of reflection that 
will sensibly affect most readers, especially those at a similar time 
of life. 





SIB, — I, as well as your correspondent Urbanus, was very 
much pleased with your late paper on the moral use of 
the country, and the portrait of the excellent lady it contain- 
ed. I am an old man, sir, but thank God, with all my facul- 
ties and feelings entire and alive about me; and your de- 
scription recalled to my memory some worthy characters with 
which my youth was acquainted, and which, I am inclined to 
believe, I should find it a little difficult, were I even disposed 
to look out for them, to supply now. At my time of life, 
friends are a treasure which the fortunate may have preserv- 
ed, but the most fortunate can hardly acquire ; and if I am 
not mistaken in my opinion of the present race, there are not 
many friendships among them which I would be solicitous to 
acquire or they will be likely to preserve. It is not of their 
little irregularities or imprudenoies I complain ; I know these 
must always be expected and pardoned in the young ; and 
there are few of us old people who can recollect our youthful 
days without having some things of that sort to blush for. 
No, Mr. Lounger, it is their prudence, their wisdom, their 
foresight, their policy, I find fault with. They put on the 
livery of the world so early, and have so few of the weaknesses 
of feeling or of fancy ! To this cause I impute the want of 
that rural sentiment which your correspondent Urbanus seems 
to suppose is banished only from the country retreats of 
town dissipation, from the abodes of fashionable and frivolous 
people, who carry all the follies and pleasures of a city into 
scenes destined for rural simplicity and rural enjoyment. 
But in truth, sir, the people of the country themselves, who 


never knew fashionable life, or city dissipation, have now ex- 
changed the simple-hearted pleasures which in my younger 
days were common among them, for ideas of a much more 
selfish sort. Most of my young acquaintance there (and I 
spend at least eight months of the year in the country) are 
really arrived at that prudent way of estimating things which 
we used to be diverted with in Hudibras : 

" For what's the value of a thing, 
Bat as much money as 'twill bring; Y* 

Their ambition, their love, their friendship, all have this ten- 
dency ; and their no-ambition, their no-love, their no-friend- 
sbip, or, in one word, their indiflference about every object 
from which some worldly advantage is not to be drawn, is 
equally observable on the other hand. On such a disposition, 
Mr. Lounger, what impression is to be made by rural objects 
or rural scenery ? The visions which these paint in fancy, or 
the tender ties they have on remembrance, cannot find room 
in an imagination or a heart made callous by selfish and in- 
terested indifference. 'Tis with regret rather than resent- 
ment that I perceive this sort of turn so prevalent among 
the young people of my sicquaintance, or those with whom 
I am connected. I have now, alas ! no child of my own in 
whom I can either lament such a failing, or be proud of the 
want of it. 

I think myself happy, sir, that, even at my advanced pe- 
riod of life, I am still susceptible of such impressions as those 
which our 87th Number imputes to rural contemplation. At 
this season, above all others, methinks they are to be enjoy- 
ed. Now in this fading time of the year, when the flush of 
vegetation and the glow of maturity is past, when the fields 
put on a sober or rather saddened appearance, I look on the 
well-known scenery around my country dwelling, as I would 


on a friend fallen from the pride of prosperity to a more 
humble and more interesting situation. The withering grass 
that whistles on the unsheltered bank; the fallen leaves 
strewed over the woodland path ; the silence of the almost 
naked copse, which not long ago rung with the music of the 
birds ; the flocking of their little tribes that seem mute with 
the dread of ills to come ; the querulous call of the partridge 
in the bare brown field, and the soft low song of the red- 
breast from the household shed ; this pensire landscape, with 
these plaintive accompaniments, dimmed by a gray October 
sky, which we look on with the thoughts of its shortened and 
still shortening light ; all this presses on my bosom a certain 
still and gentle melancholy, which I would not part with for 
all the pleasure that mirth could give, for all the luxury that 
wealth could buy. 

You say, truly, in one of your late papers, that poetry is 
almost extinguished among us : it is one of my old-fashioned 
propensities to be fond of poetry, to be delighted with its 
descriptions, to be affected by its sentiments. I find genuine 
poetry a sort of opening to the feelings of my mind, to 
which my own expression could not give vent ; I see in its 
descriptions a picture more lively and better composed, than 
my own less distinct and less vivid ideas of the objects 
around me could furnish. It is with such impressions that 
I read the following lines of Thomson's Autumn introduc- 
tive of the solemn and beautiful apostrophe to philosophio 
melancholy : — 

" But see the fading many-color'd woods, 
Shade deepening over shade, the country round 
Imbrown ; a crowded umbrage, dusk and dun, 
Of every hue, from wan declining green 
To sooty dark. These now the lonesome muse, 
Low whispering, lead into their leaf-strown walkfl^ 
And give the season in its latest view. 


• *' Meantime, light-shadowing all, a sober cahn 
Fleeces unbounded ether ; whose least wave 
Stands tremulous, uncertain where to turn 
The gentle current ; while illumined wide 
The dewy-skirted clouds imbibe the sun, 
And through their lucid veil his soften'd force 
Shed o'er the peaceful world. Then is the time, 
For those whom wisdom and whom nature charm, 
To steal themselves from the degenerate crowd, 
And soar above this little scene of things ; 
To tread low-thoughted vice beneath their feet, 
To soothe the throbbing passions into peace. 
And woo lone quiet in her silent walks." 

About this time three years, sir, I had the misfortune to 
lose a daughter, the last survivor of my family, whom her 
mother, dyiog at her birth, left a legacy to my tenderness, 
who closed a life of the most exemplary goodness, of the 
most tender filial duty, of the warmest benevolence, of the 
most exalted piety, by a very gradual but not unperceived 

When I think on the returning season of this calamity, 
when I see the last fading flowers of autumn, which my 
Harriet used to gather with a kind of sympathetic sadness, 
and hear the small chirping note of the flocking linnets, which 
she used to make me observe as the elegy of the year ! when 
I have drawn her picture in the midst of this rural scenery, 
and then reflected on her many virtues and accomplishments, 
on her early and unceasing attention to myself, her gentle 
and winning manners to every one around her ; when I re- 
member her resignation during the progress of her disorder, 
her unshaken and sublime piety in its latest stages ; when 
these recollections filled my mind, in conjunction with the 
drooping images of the season, and the Fense of my own 
waning period of life, I feel a mixture of sadness and of oom- 



posnre, of humility and of eleTation of spirit, which. I think, 
sir, a man would ill exchange for any degree of unfeeling 
prudence, or of worldly wisdom and indifference. 

The attachment to rural ohjects is like that family affec- 
tion which a warm and uncorrupted mind preserres for its 
relations and early acquaintance. In a town, the lively par- 
tiality and predilections for these relations or friends is 
weakened or lost in the general intercourse of the multitude 
around us. In a town, external objects are so common, so 
unappropriated to ourselves, and are so liable to change and 
to decay, that we cannot feel any close or permanent connec- 
tion with them. In the country we remember them un- 
changed for along space of time, and fdr that space known 
and frequented by scarce* any but ourselves. ^ Methinks I 
should hate," say^a young lady, the child of fiction, yet drawn 
with many features like that excellent girl I lost, ^methinks 
I should hate to have been bom in a town. When I say my 
native brook, or my native hill, I talk of friends, of whom 
the remembrance warms my heart." When the memory of 
persons we dearly loved is connected with the view of those 
objects, they have then a double link to the souL It were 
tender enough for me to view some ancient trees that form 
my common evening walk, did I only remember what I was 
when I first sported under their shade, and what I am when 
I rest under it now ; but it is doubly tender when I think 
of those with whom I have walked there ; of her whom but 
a few summers ago I saw beneath those beeches, smiling in 
health, and beauty, and happiness, her present days lighted 
up with innocence and mirth, and her future drawn in the 
flattering colors of fancy and of hope. 

But I know not why I should trouble you with this re- 
cital of the situation and feelings of an individual, or indeed 
why I should have written to you at all, except that I catched 


a sort of congenial spirit from your 87tli Number, and was 
led by the letter of Urbanus to compare your description of 
a personage in former times with those whose sentiments I 
sometimes hear in the present days. I am not sure that 
these have gained in point of substance what they have lost 
in point of imagination. Power, and wealth, and luxury, are 
relative terms ; and if address, and prudence, and policy, can 
only acquire us our share, we shall not account ourselves 
more powerful, more rich, or more luxurious, than when in 
the little we possessed.wei were still equal to those around us. 
But if we have narrowed the sources of internal comfort and 
internal enjoyment,— if we have debased the powers of purity 
of the mind, — if we have blunted the sympathy or contracted 
the affections of the heart, we have lost some of that treasure 
which was absolutely our own, and derived not its value from 
comparative estimation. Above all, if we have allowed the 
prudence or the interests of this "world to shut out from our 
souls the view or the hopes of a better, we have quenched 
that light which would have cheered the darkness of affliction 
and the evening of old age, which at this moment, Mr. Loun- 
ger (for like an old man I must come back to myself), I feel 
restoring me my virtuous friends, my loved relations, my 
diearest child 1 — I am, &o. Adaastus. 

€^100 ^oitnttS; onit an Snsmjition on a ^]tmg. 


It 18 curionB that Warton, who was by no means a great poet, 
should have written some of the most favorite sonnets in the lan- 
guage. The reason is, that they were upon subjects he understood, 
and that the writer was in earnest. Upon most, indeed upon any oc- 
casions, Warton's mind was not sufficiently active or excitable to be 
moved into much eloquence of expression. The Fellow of Trinity 
College, Oxford, was a luxurious Protestant monk, who found some- 
thing to minister to his satisfaction in everything around him, Gothic 
architecture, books, country walks, &>c., not omitting the club-room 
and the pipe ; but he was content, in general, to admire them through 
the medium of the thoughts of others, and so let the companions of 
his mind speak for him. He was susceptible, however, of strong 
general impressions ; and as these, in the instances before us, were 
made by his favorite subjects, they are given with corresponding 
truth. Almost all his sonnets (they are only nine), but especially 
these two, notwithstanding conventional phrases, have elegance, sim- 
plicity, and a touching fervor. Nobody had written on the particular 
topics before him, at least not poetically ; so that his modesty was 
not tempted into imitation. It makes us regret that he did not oftener 
take up new subjects, especially when we see the original eye for na- 
ture which is discernible even in his half centos ftom the poets he ad- 
mired. It must be allowed, nevertheless, that the good comfortable 
collegian was made rather to feel sentiment in others, than to express 
it in his own sturdy person. 



HEKE quench your tliirst, and mark in me 
An emblem of true charity ; 
Who, while my bounty I bestow, 
Am neither heard, nor seen, to flow. 



DEEM not devoid of elegance the sage, 
By fancy^s genuine feelings unbeguil^d, 
Of painful pedantry the poring child. 
Who turns of these proud domes th' historic page, 
Now sunk by time and Henry's fiercer rage. 
Think'st thou the warbling muses never smiPd 
On his lone hours ? Ingenuous views engage 
His thoughts, on themes, unclassio falsely styPd, 
Intent. While cloistered piety displays 
Her mouldering rolls, the piercing eye explores 
New manners and the pomp of elder days. 
Whence culls the pensive bard his pictured stores. 
Nor rough, nor barren, are the winding ways 
Of hoar antiquity, but strewn with flowers. 


FROM Pembroke's princely dome, where mimic art 
Decks with a magic hand the dazzling bowers. 
Its living hues where the warm pencil pours. 
And breathing forms from the rude marble start, 

* The Monastican is an account of the monasteries existing in 
England before the Reformation. 

f The seat of the Pembroke family; where there was, and is, a 
fine collection of pictures. 


How to life's humbler scene can I depart, 

My breast all glowing from those gorgeous towers ? 

In my low cell how cheat the sullen hours ? 

Vain the complaint. For fancy can impart 

(To fate superior and to fortune's doom) 

Whatever adorns the stately storied halL 

She, 'mid the dungeon's solitary gloom, 

Can dress the graces in their Attio pall ; 

Bid the green landskip's vernal beauty bloom, 

And in bright trophies clothe the twilight walL 


The dispute respeeting the merits and antbenticity of the poems 
of Ossian has long settled down, we believe, into an admission of the 
former, and a conclusion that Macpherson invented tfaem, assisted by 
traditional fragments. It is a pity Macpherson ever suffered the dis- 
pute to take place ; for it has left him a doubtAil reputation both for 
genius and honesty, when perhaps nobody would have questioned 
either. The fragments may have excelled the inventions ; but hardly 
any one, except a man of genius, could have put them so well together, 
notwithstanding the violation of times and manners. There is a great 
deal of repetition and monotony ; yet somehow these faults them- 
selves contribute to the welcome part of the impression. They affect 
us like the dreariness of the heaths and the moaning of the winds. 
But the work would not have stood its ground, and gained the admir- 
ers it has, did it not possess positive beauties ; veins of genuine feel- 
ing and imagination. It is understood that an Italian translation was 
a favorite with Bonaparte and his officers during the early republican 
times. The present king of Sweden, Oscar Bemadotte, is said, we be- 
lieve, to have been named after the son of Ossian. But even these 
illustrious testimonies to its merit are unnecessary after the single one 
of Gray, who in his Letters repeatedly expresses his admiration, par- 
ticularly of the passages before us. We shall extract his notice of 
them by way of argument as well as critique. It is hardly requisite 
to mention, that Macpherson does not attribute these passages to Os- 
sian. He has put them in a note, and says they were written by some 
imitator " a thousand years afterwards !" Gray takes no notice of 


this ; nor shall we. If they are not of the same manufiMStiuo as the 
rest, ghost is not like ghost, nor a wind a wind. 

Observe how beautifblly Gray talks of the gust of wind " recollect- 
ing itself," and resembling the voice of a spirit. 

" I have received," he says to his friend Mr. Stonhewer, ** another 
Scotch packet with a third specimen, inferior in kind (because it is 
merely description), but fail of nature and noble wild imagination. 
Five bards pass the night at the castle of a chief (himself a principal 
bard) ; each goes in his turn to observe the face of things, and returns 
with an extempore picture of the changes he has seen (it is an October 
night, the harvest month of the Highlands). This is the whole plan ; 
yet there is a contrivance, and a preparation of ideas, that you would 
not expect. The oddest thing is, that every one of them sees ghosts 
(more or less). The idea that struck me and surprised me most, is 
the following :— One of them (describing a storm of wind and rain) 

*< Ghosts ride on the tempest to-night ; 
Sweet is their voice between the gasts of wind ; 
Their songs are of other worlds P 

Did you never observe (while rocking winds are piping loud) that 
pause, as the gust is recollecting itself, and rising upon the ear in a 
shrill and plaintive note, like the swell of an JSoIian harp ? I do as- 
sure you there is nothing in the world so like the voice of a spirit 
Thomson had an ear sometimes : he was not deaf to this ; and has de- 
scribed it gloriously, but given it another different turn, and of more 
horror. I cannot repeat the lines: it is in his Winter. There is 
another very flue picture in one of theuL It describes the breaking 
of the clouds after the storm, before it is settled into a calm, and when 
the moon is seen by short intervals. 

** The waves are tumbling on the lake. 
And lash the rocky sides, 
The boat is brimM in the covo, 
The oars on the rocking tide. 
Sad sits a maid beneath a clifl^ 
And eyes the rolling stream; 
Her lover promised to come. 

She saw his boat (when it was evening) on the lake; 
Are these his groans on the gale ? 
Is this his broken boat on the shore ?" 


Note, that Gray has written oat these sentences in distinct lines, 
as thoogh they had been metrically disposed in the original, and not 
prose. And indeed it is difficult not to discern a mnsic in them, or to 
think they want a mnsic of any other sort. But the effect would be 
different in long compositions. 


NIGHT is dull and dark. The clouds rest on tlie hills. 
No star with green trembling beam, no moon, looks 
from the sky. I hear the blast in the wood ; but I hear it 
distant far. The stream of the valley murmurs ; but its 
murmur is sullen and sad. From the tree at the grave of 
the dead the long-howling owl is heard. I see a dim form 
on the plain 1 It is a ghost ! it fades, it flies. Some funeral 
shall pass this way ; the meteor marks the path. 

The distant dog is howling from the hut of the hill. 
The stag lies on the mountain moss : the hind is at his side. 
She hears the wind in its branching horns. She starts, but 
lies again. 

The roe is in the cleft of the rock : the heath-cock's 
head is beneath his wing. No beast, no bird is abroad, but 
the owl and the howling fox. She on a leafless tree ; he in 
a cloud on the hill. 

Dark, panting, trembling, sad, the traveller has lost his 
way. Through shrubs, through thorns, he goes along the 
gurgling rill. He fears the rock and the fen. He fears the 
ghost of night. The old tree groans to the blast ; the fall- 
ing branch resounds. The wind drives the withered burs, 
clung together, along the grass. It is the light tread of a 
ghost ! He trembles amidst the night. 

Dark, dusky, howling is night, cloudy, windy, and full of 
ghosts ! The dead are abroad 1 My friends, receive me from 
the night 



The wind is up. The shower descends. The spirit of 
the mountain shrieks. Woods fall from high. Windows 
flap. The growing river roars. The traveller attempts the 
ford. Hark ! that shriek ! he dies ! The storm drives the 
horse from the hill, the goat, the lowing cow. They tremble 
as drives the shower, beside the mouldering bank. 

The hunter starts from sleep, in his lonely hut ; he wakes 
the fire decayed. His wet dogs smoke around him. He fills 
the chinks with heath. Loud roar two mountain-streams 
which meet beside his booth. 

Sad on the side of a hill the wandering shepherd sits. 
The tree resounds above him. The stream roars down the 
rock. He waits for the rising moon to guide him to his 

Ghosts ride on the storm to-night Sweet is their 
voice between the squalls of wind. Their songs are of 
other worlds. 

The rain is past. The dry wind blows. Streams roar, 
and windows flap. Cold drops fall from the roof I see the 
starry sky. But the shower gathers again. The west is 
gloomy and dark. Night ia stormy and dismal ; receive me, 
my friends, from night. 


The wind still sounds between the hills, and whistles 
through the grass of the rock. The firs fall from their place. 
The turfy hut is torn. The clouds, divided, fly over the sky, 
and show the burning stars. The meteor, token of death 1 
flies sparkling through the gloom. It rests on the hilL I 


see the withered fern, the dark-browed rock, the fallen 
oak. Who is that in his shroud beneath the tree, by the 
stream ? 

The waves dark tumble on the lake, and lash its rocky 
sides. The boat is brimful in the cove ; the oars on the 
rocking tide. A maid sits sad before the rock, and eyes the 
rolling stream. Her lover promised to come. She saw 
his boat, when yet it was light, on the lake. Is this his 
broken boat on the shore ? Are these his groans on the 

Hark ! the hail rattles around. The flaky snow de- 
scends. The tops of the hills are white. The stormy winds 
abate. Various is the night and cold ; receive me, my friends, 
from night. 


Night is calm and fair : blue, starry, settled is night ! 
The winds, with the clouds, are gone. They sink behind 
the hill. The moon is upon the mountains. Trees glister : 
streams shine on the rock. Bright rolls the settled lake : 
bright the stream of the vale. 

I see the trees overturned ; the shocks of com on the 
plain. The wakeful hind rebuilds the shocks, and whistles on 
the distant field. 

Calm, settled, fair is night ! Who comes from the place 
of the dead ? That form with the robe of snow-white arms, 
and dark-brown hair ! It is the daughter of the chief of 
the people : she that lately fell ! Come, let us view thee, 
O maid 1 thou that hast bean the delight of heroes I The 
blast drives the phantom away : white without form, it as- 
cends the hill. 

The breezes drive the blue xnist slowly over the narrow 


vale. It rises on the hill, and joins its head to heaven. 
Night is settled, calm, blue, starry, bright with the moon. Re- 
ceive me not, mj friends, for lovely is the night. 


Night is calm, but dreary. The moon is in a cloud in 
the west. Slow moves that pale beam along the shaded hill. 
The distant wave is heard. The torrent murmurs on the 
rock. The cock is heard from the booth. More than half 
the night is past. The housewife, groping in the gloom, re- 
kindles the settled fire. The hunter thinks that day ap- 
proaches, and calls his bounding dogs. He ascends the hill, 
and whistles on his way. A blast removes the cloud : he 
sees the starry plough of the north. Much of the night is to 
pass. He nods by the mossy rock. 

Hark ! the whirlwind is in the wood. A low murmur in 
the vale ! It is the mighty army of the dead, returning from 
the air. 

The moon rests behind the hill. The beam is still on 
that lofty rock. Long are the shadows of the trees. Now 
it is dark over all. Night is dreary, silent, and dark ; re- 
ceive me, my friends, from night. 


Let clouds rest on the hills, spirits fly, and travellers 
fear. Let the winds of the woods arise, the sounding storms 
descend. Boar streams, and windows fljap, and green-winged 
meteors fly ! Rise the pale moon from behind her hills, or 
enclose her head in clouds ! Night is alike to me, stormy or 
gloomy the sky. Night flies before the beam, when it is 


poured on the hill. The young day returns from his clouds, 
but we return no more. 

Where are our chiefs of old? Where our kings of 
mighty name ? The fields of their battles are silent. Scarce 
their mossy tombs remain. We shall also be forgot. This 
lofty house shall fall. Our sons shall not behold the ruins 
in grass. They shall ask of the aged, "Where stood the 
walls of our fathers ?" 

Eaise the song, and strike the harp; send round the 
shells of joy. Suspend a hundred tapers on high. Youths 
and maids begin the dance. Let some graybeard be near 
me, to tell the deeds of other times ; of kings renowned in 
our land, of chiefs we behold no more. Thus let the night 
pass, until morning shall appear in our hall. Then let the 
bow be at hand, the dogs, the youths of the chase. We shall 
ascend the hill with day, and awake the deer. 

Utttrtnitiit aut Statji of s Itatesman* 


Politics have nothing to do with this Yolume. The reader will 
have seen, that the questions between Whig and Tory are of no more 
concern to ns, in these delightful lands of compilation, than any other 
interference which should limit their extent and fi^edom. There 
have been amiable and large-hearted men on both sides. Mr. Fox 
was one of them ; and we repeat these accounts of him, as we should 
of any other human being under the like circumstances, because they 
suit this portion of our work, and the whole genial intention of it. 

Mr. Trotter's book has some faults of style, but not in the passages 
extracted. He has given a valuable report of the way in which the 
great statesman passed his time at Saint Anne's Hill; and the account 
of his own feelings, while occupied in waiting his patron's last hour, 
especially during the visit to the dressing-room once occupied by the 
Duchess of Devonshire, is very striking. Saint Anne's Hill is in the 
neighborliood of Chertsey. 

ST. Anne's Hill is delightfully situated; it commands a 
rich and extensive prospect. The house is embowered in 
trees, resting on the side of a hill, its grounds declining grace- 
fully to a road, which bounds them at bottom. Some fine 
trees are grouped round the house, and three remarkably 
beautiful ones stand on the lawn ; while a profusion of shrubs 
are distributed throughout with taste and judgment. Here 


Mr. Fox was the tranquil and happy possessor of about thirty 
acres, and the inmate of a small but pleasant mansion. The 
simplicity and benignity of his manners, speaking the integri- 
ty of his character, soon dispelled those feelings of awe, 
which one naturally experiences on approaching what is very 

The domestic life of Mr. Fox was equally regular and 
agreeable. In summer he rose between six and seven; in 
winter before eight. The assiduous care and excellent man- 
agement of Mrs. Fox rendered his rural mansion the abode 
of peace, elegance, and order, and had long procured her the 
gratitude and esteem of those private friends whose visits to 
Mr. Fox, in his retirement at St. Anne's Hill, made them 
witnesses of this amiable woman's conduct. I confess I car- 
ried with me some of the vulgar prejudices respecting this 
great man ! How completely was I undeceived ! After 
breakfast, which took place between eight and nine in sum- 
mer, and at a little after nine in winter, he usually read some 
Italian author with Mrs. Fox, and then spent the time pre- 
ceding dinner at his literary studies, in which the Greek poets 
bore a principal part. 

A frugal but plentiful dinner took place at three, or half- 
past two, in summer, and at four in winter ; and a few glasses 
of wine were followed by coflfee. The evening was dedicated 
to walking and conversation till tea-time, when reading aloud 
in history commenced, and continued till near ten. A light 
supper of fruit, pastry, or something very trifling, finished the 
day ; and at half-past ten the family were gone to rest. 

At breakfast the newspaper was read, commonly by Mr. 
Fox, as well as the letters which had arrived ; for such was 
the noble confidence of his mind, that he concealed nothing 
from his domestic circle, unless it were the faults or the se- 
crets of his friends. At such times, when the political topics 


of the day were naturally introduced by the paper, I never, 
could observe the least acrimony or anger against that party 
which so sedulously, and indeed successfully, had labored to 
exclude him from the management of affairs, by misrepresen- 
tations of his motives, rather than by refutations of his ar- 

In private conversation, I think, he was rather averse to 
political discussion, generally preferring subjects connected 
with natural history, in any of its branches : above all, dwel- 
ling with delight on classical and poetical subjects. It is not 
to be supposed, however, that, where the interests and happi- 
ness of millions were concerned, he preserved a cold silence. 

About the end of May, Mrs. Fox mentioned slightly to 
me that Mr. Fox was unwell ; but at this time there was no 
alarm or apprehension. In the beginning of June I received 
a message from her, requesting me to come to him, as he had 
expressed a wish for me to read to him, if I was disengaged. 
It was in the evening, and I found him reclining upon a 
couch, uneasy and languid. It seemed to me so sudden an 
attack, that I was surprised and shocked. He requested me 
to read some of the ^neid to him, and desired me to turn to 
the fourth book : this was his favorite part. The tone of 
melancholy with' which that book commences, was pleasing to 
his mind : he appeared relieved, and to forget his uneasiness 
and pains; but I felt this recurrence' to Virgil as a mournful 
omen of a great attack upon his system, and that he was al- 
ready looking to abstract himself from noise, and tumult, and 
politics. Henceforth his illness rapidly increased, and was 
pronounced a dropsy ! I have reason to think that he turned 
his thoughts very soon to retirement at St. Anne's Hill, as 
he found the pressure of business insupportably harassing ; 
and I have ever had in mind those lines, as very applicable 
to him at this time : — 


" And as an hare, whom honnds and horns pursue, 
Pants to the goal, from whence at first she flew, 
I still had hopes — my long vexations past — 
Here to reiwrn, and die (at home) at last." 

Another of these symptoms of melancholy foreboding, I 
thought, was shown in his manner at Holland House. Mrs. 
Fox, he, and I, drove there several times before his illness 
confined him, and when exercise was strongly urged. He 
looked around him the last day he was there with a farewell 
tenderness that struck me very much. It was the place 
where he had ^nt his youthful days.- Every lawn, garden, 
tree, and walk, were viewe4 by him with peculiar affection. 
He pointed out its beauties to me, and, in particular, showed 
me a green lane or avenue, which his mother, the late Lady 
Holland, had made by shutting up a road. He was a very 
exquisite judge of the picturesque, and had mentioned to me 
how beautiful this road had become, since converted into an 
alley. He raised his eyes in the house, looking around, and 
was earnest in pointing out everything he Hked and remem- 

Soon, however, his illness very alarmingly increased; 
he suffered dreadful pains, and often rose from dinner with 
intolerable suffering. His temper never changed, and was 
always serene and sweet : it was amazing to behold so much 
distressing anguish, and so great equanimity. His friends, 
alarmed, crowded round him, as well as those relatives who, 
in a peculiar degree, knew his value and affectionate nature. 

Mfs. Fox, whose unwearied attentions were the chief 
comfort of the sufferer, and myself read aloud a great deal 
to him. Crabbe's poems, in manuscript, pleased him a great 
deal; in particular, the little episode of Phoebe Dawson. He 
did not, however, hear them all read, and there are parts in 
which he would have suggested alterations. We thus read, 



relieying eacH other, a great namber of novels to him. He 
now saw very few persons. In truth, he had now every reason 
to do so, — visitors fatigued and oppressed him. He lan- 
guished for St. Anne's Hill, and there all his hopes and 
wishes centered ; he thought of a private life, and of resign- 
ing his office, and we had hopes that he might be restored 
sufficiently to enjoy health by abstaining from business. The 
Duke of Devonshire offered him the use of Chiswick House 
as a resting-place, from whence, if he gained strength enough, 
he might proceed to St. Anne's^^ Preparations for his de- 
parture began, therefore, to be made, which he saw with visi- 
ble and unfeigned pleasure. 

Two or three days before he was removed to Chiswick 
House, Mr. Fox sent for me, and with marked hesitation and 
anxiety, as if he much wished it, and yet wias unwilling to ask 
it, informed me of his plan of going to Chiswick House, re- 
questing me to form one of the family there. There was no 
occasion to request me ; duty, affecti(Hi, and gratitude, would 
have carried me wherever he went. About the end of July, 
Mrs. Fox and he went there, and on the following day I 
joined them. No mercenary hand approached him. Mrs. 
Fox hung over him every day with vigilant and tender affec- 
tion : when exhausted I took her place ; and at night, as his 
disorder grew grievously oppressive, a confidential servant 
and myself shared the watching and labors between us/ I 
took the first part, because I read to him, as well as gave him 
medicine or nourishment. 

We continued our reading of Johnson? s laves of the Poets. 
How often at midnight, as he listened with avidity, and made 
the remarks that occurred, he apologized to me for keeping 
me from my rest, but, still delighted with our reading, would 
say, ^ Well, you may go on a little more," as I assured him 
that I liked the reading aloud. At these times he vrould de- 


'Cend Johnson, when I hiamed his severity and unwillingness 
"^o allow, and incapacity to appreciate, poetical merit, — would 
xefer me to his life of Savage, and plainly showed much par- 
tiality for Johnson. Of Dryden, he was a warm and almost 
enthusiastic admirer. He conversed a great deal about that 
great English poet ; and indeed I never perceived, at any 
time, a stronger relish for, or admiration of, the poets, than 
at this afflicting periodj I generally read to him till three 
or fbur in the morning, and then retired for a few hours : he 
showed always great uneasiness at my sitting up, but evident- 
ly was soothed and gratified by my being with him. At first 
he apologized for my preparing the nourishment, which re* 
quired to be warmed in the night ; but seeing how sincerely 
I was devoted to him, he ceased to make any remark. Once 
he asked me, at midnight, when preparing chicken panade for 
him, ^^ Does this amuse you ? I hope it does.'' He was so 
far from exacting attendance, that he received every little 
good office, every proper and necessary attention, as a favor 
and kindness done him. So unvitiated by commerce with 
mankind, so tender, so alive to all the charms of friendship, 
was this excellent man's heart ! His anxiety also, lest Mrs. 
Fox's health should suffer, was uniformly great till the day 
he expired. 

Lord EPblland and General Fitzpatrick, as he grew worse, 
came and resided at Chiswick House entirely. Miss Fox 
also remained there. Thus he had around him, every day, 
all he loved most ; and the overwhelming pressure of his 
disorder was as much as possible relieved by the converse 
and sight of cherished relatives and friends. Lord Holland 
showed how much he valued such an uncled He never left 
him ; — the hopes of power or common allurements of ambi- 
tion, had no effect upon him. His affectionate attention to 
Mr. Fox, and his kmdness to all who assisted that great man. 


were endearing in a high degree. Miss Fox — calm and re- 
signed, grieving, without uttering a word — ^would sit at the 
foot of his bed, and often reminded me of the fine heads of 
females, done by masterly hands, to express sorrow, dignity, 
and faith in God. 

There was now a plaintiyeness in his manner very inter- 
esting, but no way derogating from his fortitude and calm- 
ness. He did not affect the stoic. He bore his pains as a 
Christian and a man. Till the last day, however, I do not 
think he conceived himself in danger. A few days before 
the termination of his mortal career, he said to me at night, 
'^ Holland thinks me worse than I am '" and, in fact, the ap- 
pearances were singularly delusive not a week before he ex- 
pired. In the day, he arose and walked a little, and his looks 
were not ghastly or alarming by any means. Often did he 
latterly walk to his window to gaze on the berries of the 
mountain ash, which hung clustering on a young tree at Chis- 
wick House ; every morning he returned to look at it he 
would praise it, as the morning breeze, rustling, shook the 
berries and leaves ; but then the golden sun, which played 
upon them, and the fresh air that comes with .the dawn, were 
to me almost heart-sickening, though once so delightful : he 
whom I so much cherished and esteemed, — ^whose kindness 
had been ever unremitting and unostentatious, — ^h% whose so- 
ciety was to me happiness and peace, — was not long to enjoy 
this sun and this morning air. His last look on that moun- 
tain-ash was his farewell to nature. 

I continued to read aloud to him every night, and as he 
occasionally dropt asleep, I was then left to the awful medita- 
tions incident to such a situation. No person was awake be- 
side myself; the lofty rooms and hall of Chiswick House 
were silent, and the world reposed. In one of those melan- 
<?holy pauses, I walked about for a few moments, and found 


myself involuntarily and accidentally in the late Duchess of 
Devonshire's dressing-room. Everything was as that amiable 
and accomplished lady bad left it : the music-book still open, 
the books not restored to their places, a chair as if she had but 
just left it, and every mark of a recent inhabitant in this ele- 
gant apartment. The Duchess had died in May, and Mr. 
Fox had very severely felt her loss. Half-opened notes lay 
scattered about. The night was solemn and still ; and at 
that moment, had some floating sound of music vibrated 
through the air, I cannot tell to what my feelings would have 
been wrought. Never had I experienced so strong a sensa- 
tion of the transitory nature of life, of the vanity of a fleeting 
world ! I stood scarce breathing, — ^heard nothing,-^listened. 
Scarcely knowing how I left the dressing-room, I returned. 
All was still. Mr. Fox slept quietly. I was deluded into 
a tranquil joy to find him still alive, and breathing without 
difficulty. His countenance was always serene in sleep : no 
troubled dreams ever agitated or distorted it, — it was the 
transcript of his guileless mind. 

Mr. Fox expired between five and six in the afternoon 
of the 13th of September, 1806. The Tower guns were 
firing for the capture of Buenos Ay res, as he was breathing 
his last. 

((^rail's (0Ugii is a (toniitn[ (t^n|n(aii 

We desire to say as little as possible about this afibctlng and noble 
poem. It is so sweet, so true, and so universally appreciated, tbat we 
feel inclined to be as silent before it, as if listening to the wind over 
the graves. It is the fit conclusion for our book, both in the subject 
and spirit — serious, calm, and hopeful. 

The epitaph is on the author ; and never did a man speak of himself 
with a truth more beautifully combining dignity with humility, a senso 
of all tbat he felt worthy and all that he felt weak. We suspect, that 
the " cross'd in love" of the previous lines might very ^ell apply to 
Gray. He had secret griefs of some kind, perhaps of disease, perhaps 
of sympathy with a good mother, and distress at having a bad father 
(for such, alas ! was the case) ; but whatever they were, we may be 
sure that they were those of a good and kind man. 

The poem before us is as sweet as if written by Coleridge, and as 
pious and universal as if religion had uttered it, undisturbed by po- 
lemics. It is a quintessence of humanity. 

THE curfew tolls the knell of parting day, 
The lowing herd winds slowly o*er the lea, 
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way. 
And leaves the world to darkness and to me. 

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, 
And all the air a solemn stillness holds, 


Save wliere the beetle wheels his droning flight, 
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds ; 

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower, 
The moping owl does to the moon complain 

Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, 
Molest her ancient solitary reign. 

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, 
Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, 

Each in his narrow cell forever laid. 
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 

The breezy call of incense-breathing mom, 
The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed. 

The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn. 
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. 

For them no more the blazing hefettlwriiall^am, 

Or busy housewife ply her evening care ; 
No children run to lisp their sire's return. 

Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. 

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield ; 

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke ; 
How jocund did they drive theur team afield ! 

How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke ! 

Let not ambition mock their useful toil, 

Their homely joys, and destiny obscure ; 
Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile, 

The short and simple annals of the poor. 

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power. 
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave. 

224 jsLsar m a country churcuyxsld. 

Await alike the inevitable hour — 

The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 

Nor you, yc proad, impute to these the fault, 
If memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, 

Where, through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vaul 
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. 

Can storied urn or animated bust 
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath f 

Can honor's voice provoke the silent dust, 
Or flattery soothe the dull cold ear of death? 

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fircj 

Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed 
Or wak'd to ecstasy the living lyre. 

But knowledge to their eyes her ample page. 
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll ; 

Chill penury repressed their noble rage. 
And froze the genial current of the souL 

Full many a gem of purest ray serene 
The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear ; 

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen. 
And waste its sweetness in the desert air. 

Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless breast^ 
The little tyrant of his fields withstood, 

Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest. 
Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood. 

Th' applause of listening senates to command, 
The threats of paia and ruin to despise, 


To scatter plenty o'er a smiliDg land, 
And read their history in a nation's eyes, 

Their lot forbade ; nor circumscrib'd alone 

Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined ; 

Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, 
And shut the gates of meroy on mankind ; 

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide. 
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame. 

Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride 
With incense kindled at the muse's flame. 

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife 
Their sober wishes neyer learnt to stray ; 

Along the cool sequestered vale of life 
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. 

Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect. 

Some frail memorial still erected nigh, 
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd, 

Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 

Theur name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd muse, 

The place of fame and elegy supply ; 
And many a holy text around she strews, 

That teach the rustic moralist to die. 

For who to dumb forgetfulness a prey. 
This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd. 

Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day. 
Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind ? 

On some fond breast the parting soul relies. 

Some pious hand the closing eye requires ; 

Ev'n from the tomb the voice of nature cries, 

Ev'n in our ashes live their wonted fires. 



For thee, who, mindful of th' anhonor'd dead, 
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate, 

If chance, by lonely contemplation led, 
Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, 

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, 
^ Oft have we seen him, at the peep of dawn, 

Brushing with hasty steps the dews away. 
To meet the sun upon the upland l^wn. 

^* There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech, 
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high. 

His listless length at noontide would he stretch, 
And pore upon the brook that bubbles by. 

" Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, 
Muttering his wayward fancies, he would rove. 

Now drooping woful wan, like one forlorn, 

Or craz'd with care, or crossed in hopeless love. 

'^ One mom I miss'd him on the customed hill. 
Along the heath, and near his favorite tree : 

Another came; nor yet beside the rill. 
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he ; 

'^ The next with dirges due, in sad array. 

Slow through the churchyard path we saw him borne-* 
Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay 

'Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." 

Here rests his head upon the lap of earth, 
A youth to fortune and to fame unknown ; 

Fair science frown'd not on his humble birth, 
And melancholy mark'd him for her own. 


Large was His bounty, and his soul sincere, 
Heaven did a recompense as largely send ; 

He gave to misery all he had — a tear ; 

He gain'd from Heaven ('twas all he wished) a friend. 

No farther seek his merits to disclose, 

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode 

(There they alike in trembling hope repose), 
The bosom of his Father and his God. 




The World Here and TTiere; 

Or, Trmvellen^ Notes. From** Household Words/* Edited by Ohis. jDiOKXira. 

** Thia Tolume, written in Dickoii%'t own peculiar stjle, giras vm a bird'a-ejo riew of 
various |>arti of the world, and containa a good deal that ia inetructive, combined with atiil 
more that ie amueing. There are portione of it that task our risibles prettj sererelj, but if 
It were otherwise, one might be inclined to raise a doubt in respect to the authorriiip."— 
Aibeuw ArguM. 

** A more delightful rolume for economical reading bj the fireside, or in the rail-car, 
cannot well be procured."— Camm«rcia/ Advertiser. 

^' Few enterprises of this kind present more attractiTe features than this of the * Semi- 
Moothlj Library.' The essays are pithy, entertaining, and raluable, and it will hardly be 
possible to select a greater variety of choice reading at so cheap a price as this and the sub- 
sequent Tolumes promise." — Hunt's Merchant's Magazine. 

*' Such is the title of a new number of the cheap and attractire series of books issued in 
Putnam's Select Monthly Library, to which we have already given such hearty and deserved 
praise. It is made up ot the cream of those felicitous travelling sketches which have ap- 
peared in the ' Household Words' of Dickens ; and forms a volume replete with charming 
information and roost agreeable pictures.'-— j^ome Journal. 

**The fourth of this valuable series is called Thb World Hbsb and Thbbb. It is 
made up of sketches descriptive of all manner of scenes and adventures, and peeping in upon 
everjr land that the tide of travel has washed, from the golden gate of California to the kraals 
and jungles of Ceylon. They are from some of the most attractive writers in die United 
Kingdom." — lUustrcUed Family Friend. 

^ This is the fourth number of Mr. Putnam's Semi-Monthly Library, a series to which 
we have before called the attention of our readers, as containing in a cneap and readable 
form much valuable and interesting information. There are about twenty aifferent articles 
m the present number. We do not know of any other publication that furnishes so much 
excellent reading and so well printed for so small a price.''— Cam^'d^e Chronicle. 

Hood a Own: 

Selected Papers, with numerous comic illustrations. 

" The most poetical of humorists^ the most genial of men uxu Hood." 

** This makes the fifth of the series in ' Putnam's Semi-Monthly Library for Travellers 
aad the Fireside.' It contains a world of wit of the very keenest sort ; and in reading it, (me 
scarcel V gets even a momentary dispensation from laughing. Some of it, however, is deep, 
and when it comes to be thoroughly examined is found to have in it a considerable admix- 
ture of philosophy. The illustrations are generally good, and many of them are capital."— 
Punitan Recorder. 

**■ Thomas Hood, a most admirable fellow, with a warm heart, a sound head, a humor 
.,uamt and original, a disposition amiable and facetious, a boon companion, an honorary 
■oember of the Nox- Ambrosial Club. Hood has taste, feeling and genius."— .B&ieiHeood. 

** One of the most original and powerful geniuses which was ever dropped by Faery into 
Infant's cradle, and oddly nursed up by man into a treasure, quaint, special, chameleon- 
eolored in the changefulness of its tints, yet complete and self-consistent. Of all the humor- 
ists Hood was the most poetical. There is hardly a verse in which some touches of heart, or 
some play of fancy, did no; beckon the laughing reader into far other worlds tlum the jesters." 
•^London Athencoum. 

^ A marvellously cheap, although illustrated edition, of one of the richest books of hu- 
mor in the English language. It keeps the risible muscles in full play; and is one of 
Hood's most characteristic and successful works."— //otne Journal. 

** The volume before us is entitled *■ Hood's Own,' and is a selection from the prose and 
poetical writings of that original genius, whose cheerful philosophy and genuine numanity 
are as remarkable as his grotesque and laughter moving wit It would be idle for us to say 
any thing to recommend this book to our readers. If they do not already know and admire 
Hood, our recommendation would avail but \\\.i\e."—Brattteborough Eagle. 

" No man of the present century at least has signalized himself so much as a harm<Niiat 
M the author of these papers. That he hiu) a genius at once ori^nal and powerful admits (tf 
■o question ; but many of his finest things require to be studied before they will reveal the 
■parkling treasures that are hid in them. The wood-cuts in the present rolmme, which ara 
remarkablT weU done, are in excellent keeping with the general character ol the woric, aari 
will beartne closest inspection."— -il26any Argtta. 



Home Na/rratwes : 

Or Stories from " Household Words." Edited by Chaslu Dioexns. 

^ This is another of the excellent series which Putnam is earring out of the Household 
Words. That work contains more entertaining material than any other serial of its bulk, 
and these volumes contain the best of that material arranged in a convenient order. Thev 
may safely be classed among the most useful and agreeable reading books in our language." 
— CommontoeaUh. 

" This is No. VI. of Putnam's Semi-Monthly Library for Travellers and the Fireside, and 
contains fourteen select tales from the ever delightful Household Words. This seriea, In 

Eaper, print, cheapness and intrinsic worth of matter, is hardly to be rivalled. These stories 
ave the samo exuberance of life and animation, the same vivid description, clear portrait- 
ure, genial satire, gentle touches of nature, and lively sympathy with the joys and sorrows 
of the poor, that constitute the charm of the author's more labored productions."— Court'er 
and Enquirer. 

" One in the series of Putnam's Semi-Monthly Library— a collection of choice matter on 
clear white paper, and in good type, that a few years since might have been counted cheap at 
four times the cost— 250 pages in a book of the character of this and others of the Library that 
Mr. P. has in preparation for the press, for the sum of 25 cents must, as it should, destn^ the 
taste for the yellow covered trash that loads the counters of the *■ Cneap Publication Omces' 
all over the country. In those selections and scraps you have die kernel without the husk— 
the seed without the shell or shuck, the clean fruit ripe, secured and well put up."— Artisan 

Olaret and Olwes, Jjtl.23^- 

From *ihe Garonne to the Rhone ; or Notes, Social, Picturesque and Legen- 
dary by the way. By Angus B. Bxaoh. 

" Not only the cheapest, but is the best series of works, of the higher sort, that has been 
published, and ^ Claret and Olives,' so far from being the least interesting of the number, is 
one of the raciest and most entertaining. We commend the ' Library' to gentlemen and 
ladies who affect the genial rather than the gloomy side of things, and who appreciate quie 
humor imparted in good English." — Buffalo Courier. 

"We are persuided that this happy experiment, of giving good books at a vbrt low 
PRiOB, will result in large pecuniary profit to the very liberal ana tasteful publisher, and do 

f^reat good to a world of readers. Good books in a convenient and cheap form must yield 
argely— at least to the reader. The books published thus far have elicited universal atten- 
tion, and the one now under ocvisideration is worthy of the place assigned it in this unique 
Library. It is sprightly and tasteful, full of pleasant gossip and sparkling anecdote^ and is 
altogether eminently readable and worthy of attentive perusal. We recommend it very 
highly."— PAt/o. Item. 

" It is a talking sort of book that puts one entirely at his ease ; and the talk is 00 agreeable 
that one is by no means impatient to reach the end of it."— Albany Argus. 

" The author is a close observer, and from old fields has gleaned much that is novel and 
interesting. It is made up so much of incident and minute aescription, that one's previoua 
reading does not at all diminish the interest of the present volume. The volume constitutes 
No. VII. of Putnam's Semi-Monthly Library, an enterprise we have already taken occasion to 
commend, and which if it meets its deserts will be in the highest degree successfid. Price 
26 cents per Ho."— Granville Tele. 

" This is one of the most delightful books we 'have met with this season— a light^graee- 
ful, gossiping description of a visit to the vine and olive growing regions of Southern Franca 
and the Pyrenees. The author is a man of taste as well as sentiment, and his after-dinner 
course of clare: and olives is pleasantly spiced with bits of humor. This book makes one of 
Putnam's marvelloiialy cheap, but hantuome, Semi- Monthly Library— the best series of books 
that we remember to have been issued by any publisher."— PAi/a Evening Bui. 

** The Kyis vf the author is pleasing and graceful, interspersed with much historical ma- 
terial, nthend up daring an agreeable journey. We cannot recommend this numhac toa 
Mtmsstly as we consider it the best volume issued in this «fttV«a\yj "^^vuviKt?^— ^w^w"**^ 

(^ I'l.TNAM'S 



[^ The diitiiictiTB ehnraeterliUiB of thii SniM u« ;— J| 

'i I .1 r'f:Hl->r p-.rimhiii/ ntnue.tAai able like the Magaztnef. iJ 

•i u'-ik! jiufif. ^innl "/>/hif.' Ill"/ jioHaliic t'i'Tin, luih If 

][ ■ !:r !hf iHi'vl'r/f j«>.-irr/. .',i'i I; Lind lor Cht Ubrary. ;§ 

* -i ii-Miki. (I,.i! <ur imrl/i rr:-/i„s ini'i lot.rfk prrfurciiig. \ 

\ A. -1 /•;/■#'■ ui'MDit :/ rem/ ig f-r <i xiw ■ " y-rin:. "i 

I) MiLrilPS PI'BI.IMil':il.. 

!•' 1. -lii'MK \M> J-iU'IAI. l'inrAi:<'HV; or, OliiH,t«M .111 Emv 

\i l^.v'l''i;i.'-. I'"iii ■■ ll.iii« V>\-ri<" Kllwil byCuiiUB Dh-kkmi 

r n.-niiiMM<-u""iTihiJ. r.vT.i..^ Ji.iui>. wiihw«.j™n. vimo. 


l.\N<>. lA KiiKiKl, iii.u-Ti.i. iiTklrmlii.JCr.PTrigtai.j WIrb Jl'<v1n- 
l V._I UK \V<il;i,[) HKCKAN 1'TliKHK; or.TmwIlere' Sotes. t-roi.i 

~I["MK NAIitlATiVhii From "Unnfthold lYnrds." Edilwlbv 

-iHAjaTA'W.:' (>! iVJV, rn.Hi |iif «aroii(.t m the Khonu ; or, 
■ ■ ■ :l-»W.,y. BtAhsu* II. Uucn. 

sn and yonriij-. 

i::— A W-*."! Ki'R A_ Ci.nN-tlE;. l$v],Mun IU>T. FiraI3«rio3.— 

\.,)tXl -!;:• THh ItriTXK. llvTiir.vA.HiK.ii. ■With CoiTiic Ilfus- 
l,,!!..-",. T»-.-rii«— -K.w™-!!. . J»M 1 .7».J: l.-i.) 
SIT.A7C. '.— tO-'iUllXC ITlSTITKJil'f^tf. By Mm. Moonni. Two 

Purtt.— SA cf^tA «iLch. 
aIV^—A 11' Tlf J"1"«XAT.. B,v LL.-it. O. Omonv. 2S CBDta. 
> XV.-EiilMK A.V1> ^iH'TAT, l-);i,l"HY. Edited 1^ DitCESs. 
|] a«»Dd8eil«.-V5rrn:-. 

SV'. -SIClLf. -Vy lihMiv T, 'i: •wru-.x: 

XVIi--WIll>:s \M> ■'lH-irii;'. ISi Vi"-. Jlr.Hi. with »'uo.iciiia. 
XViii. -TIIK liA'.I.K I'.i -■': ■!, [.if. ■ it'i. 1J..11.V. HyOiii Mont- 

IMIKItv. Orlfliul. 

KARMKIl l\' KSlil.AMX lly Pkki., IHv-ikh. 
AA.- -.1 Ri'OK FltR A'OKXKIl. lly^h ilivr. S.-n.ncl t!iri.>e.